


L'amore è tre quarti di curiosità  (Love is three quarters curiosity)

by ianthewaiting



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Humor, Male Solo, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-05
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2019-02-11 00:40:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 61,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12923601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ianthewaiting/pseuds/ianthewaiting
Summary: Hermione literally collides with trouble in an alley in Northern Italy, which will lead her through a process called ‘falling in love.’





	1. I

 

**I**

 

 

 

 

There were some things I would never understand, no matter how many books I read or how keenly I observed human nature. I had come to accept these mysteries as something to add ‘spice’ to my mental travels, however, on occasion, these mysteries turned into full-blown annoyances.

 

For instance, the way Lucius Malfoy reacted to seeing me again after nearly ten years. The last time I had seen him, he was bedraggled, forlorn, and clinging like a lost child to his wife and son in the Great Hall at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. I had not thought much of him then, and afterwards, even less. Lucius Malfoy was never high on my mental pondering priority list.

 

I digress. Lucius Malfoy, ten years older, looked very fit for a man who was in his fifties. Time had little changed his face, no deep wrinkles, very few wrinkles at all, in fact. His long silvery hair was still handsomely trimmed, and held back at the nape of his long, regal neck with a dark green ribbon, the ends curling slightly over his wide shoulder. He still wore midnight black velvet robes, and he still had those same condescendingly sharp grey eyes. Lucius Malfoy had somehow been preserved like a frozen casserole I had in my refrigerator in my flat.

 

However, as he peered down his long, sharp nose at me, his expression was one that made me glare menacingly. Lucius Malfoy’s body, those exquisite robes, that patrician face was full of fear, and his body was poised to strike again.

 

Let me backtrack a moment, in lieu of explanation.

 

For two weeks, I had been on holiday from my position at the Ministry. Not long after the War, I finished my N.E.W.T.s and applied for a position in the Department of Mysteries. Now, considering all the nastiness I endured in my Fifth Year in the subterranean level, one might think I would be hesitant to return. In fact, I wanted nothing more than to return and study the mysteries of my magical world.

 

I do love mysteries.

 

I have worked as an Unspeakable for nine years. What I did in the Department of Mysteries, well, is something I cannot speak about for obvious reasons. All the same, after nine years, I was due a very long holiday.

 

So there I was, in a small Italian city in the height of winter, leaning into a wall of a narrow street, snow falling in my hair.

 

Trento was not a Wizarding city by any means, in fact, as far as I knew, I had been the only witch in the entire area of Trentino-Alto Adige and the autonomous province of Trento proper. Because of the lack of witches and wizards, I had come to Trento specifically. I loved the small city, the snow in the winter, the skiing, and the mild summers and the Alpine hiking. This was my fourth visit since the end of the War.

 

Again, I digress. I had been walking along the Via Giuseppe Verdi from the Trento University’s musical conservatory, and turned into Viccolo Terlago to move toward the Piazza Duomo to few the lit façade of the Case Relle frescoes. It was perhaps after ten, and there were still people on the pedestrian streets, bundled up in coats and hats, making their way home or to the nearest bus stop. I was going back to my small flat I kept rented off Via Calepina near the Museo Tridentino di scienze naturali, which was not far from the piazza.

 

It was as I was walking down the narrow Viccolo Terlago that I collided with a figure in the darkness between the warm lights spilling down into the alley from private windows. The night was very clear and very cold with no moon, and in the shadow, the inky robes blended perfectly into darkness. I had stumbled into a figure that had been walking ahead of me, but slower than my brisk pace. I had on a long dark red wool coat over my pale gray dress suit and a pair of dress flats on my feet that I had to mind lest I stepped on a patch of ice on the cobbled streets.

 

I apologized quickly in Italian, but before I could say anything else, or move, I was hexed.

 

Now, imagine my surprise after two weeks of not encountering another magical person. Of course, that did not mean I still did not have my wand in my coat pocket, ready to draw, which I did draw when my head stopped spinning.

 

I was not Stunned, but I was stung unpleasantly so that my feet shuffled back and I stood in the light beneath someone’s kitchen window.

 

I think I said something very rude in Italian, but before I could ponder, the dark figure moved, and a boot lashed out, catching my wand, snapping it, and impacting my chest to send me flying back into a wall. The collision knocked the air from my lungs and the back of my head snapped into the stonewall with a sickening crack.

 

My vision went dark, but I managed to stay on my feet.

 

It was then, as my vision cleared, that I saw who had attacked me as a pale head and face moved into the light. Lucius Malfoy stood over me, perhaps only three feet away, his face twisted into a hideous mask of fear.

 

He was the last person I thought I would see in a narrow street in northern Italy, and I suppose I should have mentioned this fact beforehand.

 

My surprise did not last long before I could breathe again and my anger seeped in.

 

Two things I can say about being an Unspeakable that will not break any Vows or betray any trade secrets—one, Unspeakables must be trained in physical defense, but I cannot reveal why, and two, Unspeakables always carry two wands besides their primary wand, which I had not pulled from my coat pocket. My second wand, which had been a thirteen-inch walnut with dragon heartstring, was spewing sad little sparks in my hand at my side. As for my Vinewood, it was strapped to my right inner thigh.

 

He stared, and I glared, and so it was for an undeterminable amount of time. No one came into the alley, but I could hear people from the Piazza nearby and Via Giuseppe Verdi before the conservatory building. I could also hear a television from one of the tiny apartments overhead, but only noise and not dialogue.

 

The fear in Lucius’ Malfoy’s face only intensified as I straightened, my chest aching from the well placed kick and my face burning with anger. I dropped the broken wand, the clatter of wood against paving stone echoing along the empty alley.

 

He had his wand trained on me, but did not move to cast again. For all he knew, I was unarmed, but I let my right hand move to touch my thigh in a natural posture. I knew I could easily Summon the wand into my hand.

 

Finally, I found the occasion to speak, in English—the first time in two weeks.

 

“I would appreciate if you would lower your wand, Mr. Malfoy,” I snarled, though I kept the volume of my voice low.

 

My words had Lucius Malfoy stepping back into the shadow, but I could still see his pale face and hair.

 

“How do you know my name?” he hissed, but did not lower his wand, which was polished dark wood, approximately eleven or twelve inches, including the handle that was made from sinisterly carved ivory or bone.

 

I considered his question, wondering if he did not recognize me.

 

As for me, I had not changed too much from the Battle of Hogwarts. Obviously, I was older, but my hair was still an unruly mess of brown curls and the freckles on the bridge of my nose had faded only a little. I was the same short five foot six, and though I had grown into my womanly curves, I had only gone up one clothing size since I was fighting Death Eaters in Hogwarts.

 

Quickly, I decided what to say next.

 

“You are infamous, Mr. Malfoy.”

 

His face twisted again, this time into a menacing snarl.

 

“Who are you?” he demanded, taking a step back into the light.

 

I smiled, I could not help myself, and inched my fingertips to the hem of my skirt, ready to wiggle those fingers to coax the handle of my wand down along my thigh.

 

“I suppose it has been a while, ten years?” I mused although I knew my words were distracting his eyes to my face wholly and not my hand.

 

“You are British,” he said, a non-question.

 

I nodded, and wiggled my fingers, feeling the erotic slide of Vinewood along my sensitive inner thigh, the handle falling between my fore and middle fingers.

 

“I will not ask again, who are you?” he snapped, obviously impatient.

 

My fingers twirled my wand in the shadow and then, I was casting before Lucius Malfoy could take another step.

 

“Stupefy.”

 

The quick flash of red went unnoticed by the residents of Trento. The falling body of Lucius Malfoy into my arms also went unnoticed. Trento had crime, but little. There were concerned citizens everywhere, and I concocted an explanation to the local Polizia if asked why I had an unconscious man in strange clothing leaning into me.

 

I sighed, he had dropped his wand, and I needed to prop him against the wall to retrieve it, then I cursed to myself. I am a witch!

 

I Summoned the dark wood wand and shoved it in my coat pocket with my own while Lucius Malfoy’s heavy, dark form leaned into my left shoulder. He was a heavy bugger, and as I draped his right arm about my shoulders, I considered what to do next.

 

My flat was warded, unbeknownst to the Muggle landlady, and I could not Apparate inside. Appearing on the doorstep was not a good idea either. So, in the dark alley, I considered other options.

 

I ended up casting a Weigh Lightening Charm on his body, drawing my wand again, which made it easier for me to drag him to the mouth of the alley opening onto the Piazza. In the Piazza, I saw that a few people were walking below the façade of the Duomo and the Palazzo Pretorio, and as I neared the central Neo-Classical fountain with the god Neptune atop, I was stopped by a man’s voice.

 

“Posso aiutare, Signorina?”

 

“Per favore,” I said, not caring that I did not know the man from Adam.

 

The man, who I saw in the lights in the fountain, was a student, younger. He was bundled up in a red parka with rimless glasses on his handsome face.

 

“Ha inebriato?” he asked quite formally.

 

“Si,” I grunted as I felt the Charm give way so the student would not think it odd that Lucius Malfoy weighed so little.

 

I told the student that I needed help to Via Capelina, and thanked him for his assistance. The walk took a little longer than usual with Malfoy’s added weight, but as we came to the doors leading into the poky lobby of my apartment, I thanked the student again, whose name I did not catch, before he went on his way, smiling and laughing.

 

Luckily, there was a lift in the lobby and as I drew my wand to unlock the front doors, Malfoy groaned. He was beginning to come around and I hastened to drag him at the best of my ability into the warmer lobby and to the lift to my third floor flat.

 

His pale eyes were flickering when I lowered the wards and opened the door to the small studio flat, and by the time I had closed the door behind me by kicking it, Malfoy was conscious.

 

I thanked the gods that I had his wand still in my coat pocket as he pushed away from me violently, stumbling backward, past the kitchen, past the lavatory door and into the living slash bedroom with its large windows looking over the snowy rooftops.

 

His pale hands were searching for his wand, still disoriented, and then, to my amazement, tripped over an ottoman and tumbled to the wood floor in a flutter of black robes and long pale gold hair.

 

I let my laughter come, I could not help myself. To see someone so composed as Lucius Malfoy flounder, stumble, and fall was a memory that I knew I would cherish.

 

Served the git right.

 

I toed out of my flats, doffed my coat, and hanged it on a hook near the door, putting my wand in one hand, Malfoy’s in the other. Malfoy did not move from where he fell, and I let my laughter die. Moving cautiously, I peered over the wide red upholstered ottoman to see Lucius Malfoy, a man who I had feared at one time in my young life, staring up at the ceiling, his eyes blinking.

 

When he rose, it was to sit on the ottoman with his head in his hands, his elbows on the knees of his trousers.

 

“Who are you?” he asked again, this time defeated.

 

I could not decide what to do with him. Bringing him to my flat was not the brightest idea, but I had Stunned the man and it was freezing outside.

 

I licked my lips and glanced out the large floor to ceiling windows, seeing my own vague reflection in the glass, along with Lucius Malfoy’s.

 

“Hermione Granger.”

 

His reaction, again, stunned me.

 

Lucius Malfoy howled with laughter. His head moved from his hands to throw back in a roar, his deep voice booming through the small flat, reverberating through my chest. I wished I could join in on the joke, but I could not. I stared at him, irritated. I had questions of my own.

 

I crossed my arms before my chest, tucking the sight of Malfoy’s wand under my jacket, against the light blue tuxedo ruffled blouse I wore. No matter if he was to laugh from here to doomsday, I was not going to trust him—he would go for his wand the moment he remembered it was gone.

 

“It would be someone like you…” he laughed, resulting in slapping his knee in amusement.

 

“Pardon?” I asked icily.

 

He was smiling, a truly strange sight. It made his face softer; it made me see that he had laugh lines around his pale lips. I could even see that he had light coloured stubble on his jaw. In fact, in the better light of the apartment, under warm, modern, recessed lighting, Lucius Malfoy did not look so refined as I thought.

 

His velvet robes were fraying at the hem, the clothes underneath—a dark green doublet over a dingy white shirt—were just kept well enough that he would pass for presentable. Even his once fine dragon hide black boots were worn in the heel and scuffed.

 

“Of all the magical people in the world, you _would_ be the first I would see in five years.”

 

By this time, his voice had grown serious and his smile turning down into a frown.

 

I blinked at him, incredulous.

 

The first magical person he had seen in five years?

 

I sat down before him on the adjacent armchair, but kept my arms crossed, hiding his wand, but keeping mine in view. I knew I would have to secure his wand somewhere at some point, but as we stared at each other; I did something that I thought foolish at that moment, but later would find quite clever. I dropped his wand between the arm of the chair and the cushion so that is wedged into the armchair.

 

“Then… You know me?” I asked.

 

Lucius Malfoy nodded slowly. “Though, as you said, it has been ten years since…” he trailed, and I allowed his eyes to roam over me just as I put my now empty hand into my lap.

 

His scrutiny was unnerving, his steely grey eyes seemingly piercing beyond my surface. I could not see his thoughts, though I wish I could.

 

“You Stunned me,” he then said, more under his breath than to me. “And you brought me here?”

 

I nodded. “It is my flat in Trento. You _do_ know where you are?” I asked, with a nagging suspicion.

 

He hesitated to answer, his mouth opening and then shutting, those steely eyes fixing somewhere on my through above the gauzy ruffles of my blouse.

 

“Italy. Northern Italy…” he said, but did not sound entirely sure. “I sent out a Trace Charm to find magic, and I Apparated from Munich…”

 

So far?

 

I regarded him with a bit of confusion, and he saw it clearly. He needed to explain.

 

“May I have my wand?”

 

“Why did you attack me?” I countered.

 

He had reached a pale hand toward me and I saw that his hands were rough, dirty, so unlike a Malfoy… Where was his wife? Where was Draco? Why was he in Italy?

 

The hand fell to his knee and he looked to the window, staring at his reflection in the glass and not to the snowy rooftops and lights from the Piazza beyond.

 

“I thought you had come to rob me…” he trailed, his deep voice distant.

 

The trademark drawl was gone, and his back slumped slightly.

 

“Rob you?” I asked, my brow furrowing.

 

“I have been robbed three times in the past five years—Muggles. Once in London, once in Lyon, and again in Prague, and now I only have a few Muggle notes left… Ten Euro…”

 

Ten Euro was not enough to take from anyone, in truth. It would get you a decent meal, maybe an intercittà bus from Trento to Borgo Valsugana, but not much else.

 

“It is your clothes,” I said without thinking, and as those grey eyes moved to my face again, I tried not to appear unsettled. “They are too strange, too fine,” I explained shortly.

 

Lucius, as I began to call him in my head, seemed to consider my words thoughtfully.

 

“Perhaps you are correct,” he muttered, his eyes falling to his hands resting on his knees.

 

I sighed.

 

I very rarely pity people. Pity is a low emotion, but I pitied Lucius Malfoy. I did not like him, I never had a reason to like him, but to see him so…so lost, elicited the pity.

 

I rose without a word, and I knew he watched me move to the kitchen. I opened the breadbox by the refrigerator and sat a fresh loaf of hard crusted bread on the counter nearest him, along with a knife to cut. Out of the refrigerator, I drew out a pot and set it on the small stove, lighting a fire beneath after turning the gas valve on the wall. I had made a large quantity of minestrone two days before and was still eating on it.

 

Soon, the scent of minestrone filled the flat, and Lucius rose as I ladled a bowl full and set it on the counter where he sat on a high stool, waiting for me to give him a spoon.

 

He had not eaten in some time, but how I knew this, I could not say. It was obvious by the quick way in which he ate that he was used to eating when he can, as fast as he could.

 

“What has happened to you?” I asked, leaning back into the counter next to the warm stove.

 

Lucius ignored me as his spoon scrapped the bottom of his bowl and he shoved the last morsel of bread he had pinched off the loaf into his mouth. To see Lucius Malfoy, a Pureblood aristocrat, eat like a starving street urchin, disturbed me.

 

When he choked on his bread, I hastened to give him a glass of water. He did not thank me; he did not look at me at all even as he pushed the bowl toward me.

 

“More,” he growled.

 

I only acquiesced because I felt that if I fed him, he would tell me what he meant by not seeing another magical person in five years.

 

His pace slowed after the second bowl and he chewed the hard bread thoughtfully, his eyes upon the stove beside me.

 

“Why are you in this hellishly frigid city?”

 

How many minutes had passed since he had addressed me directly, I did not know, but it felt like an age.

 

“I think that if anyone should be asking questions, it would be me,” I grumbled, pushing off the counter to turn and shut off the burner under the stove and close the gas valve.

 

Turning back to Lucius, I noticed that he was running his hands over his cloak, searching, I was sure, for his wand. When he did not find it, he said nothing, but I could see by the tightening of the skin between his eyebrows, he would not forget something so important very easily. He would search for it, if he had to…

 

“You told me why you attacked me, but you also mentioned something else?” I prompted.

 

Lucius’ face relaxed, but he stood, finally doffing his cloak and casually tossing it over the ottoman behind him. Again, I noted how dingy his undershirt was and found he was missing the bottom silver button on his quilted doublet. Even the white neck cloth he wore was browned around the collar, doubtless from perspiration.

 

He began pacing suddenly, an action that startled me. His worn boots barely made a sound on the hardwood flooring, and I could see that is was an action he seemed to do out of nervous habit. His face became hard, his brows pinching, his lips moving as he began to argue—with himself.

 

I had always thought that a family like the Malfoy family had some sort of defect after generations of breeding within a small gene pool. Too many cousins marrying cousins had to produce a mental defect somewhere. Schizophrenia, and other sorts of madness, surely, but as far as I knew of Lucius Malfoy, or the impression I had of him, he was shrewd and intelligent.

 

“Five years, five fucking years, no one saw me, I saw no one, fucking curse, fucking hag…” he muttered as he passed back and forth, six steps in one direction, six in the other.

 

“Fucking Mudblood would be the one, fucking hell, fucking curse…”

 

I had had enough after this diatribe continued for several minutes. I cleared my throat and suddenly Lucius Malfoy stopped and gazed at me as if realizing that we suddenly shared the same air.

 

“I do have the ability to pitch you head long back out into the cold, Mr. Malfoy,” I reminded him. “There is a limit to my generosity and my patience, so if you’d please explain…” I said smoothly, motioning him to sit on the ottoman again while I moved to the armchair.

 

I still had my wand, only setting it aside to warm up the minestrone, but keeping a close eye on the Vinewood.

 

He sat, not bothering to move his cloak out of the way. We faced each other, our knees only a foot apart, and I waited even as the sky began to spit snow. At some point, the clouds had rolled over the mountains, bringing heavy, fat flakes of snow that was peppering the rooftops in fresh whiteness.

 

“You won’t believe me,” he began, his posture betraying his discomfort.

 

I was sure that if he had had the choice, he would not be so close to me, or confiding in me. How well he knew me, or what he knew about me was unimportant, but it was clear that he found me distasteful. However, I could see the desperation in his face; see it in the way his shoulders bowed as if he had the weight of several planets on his shoulders.

 

Something had happened to Lucius Malfoy, something that he was loathe to tell me, but had to lest he crumple under the weight of the information and die.

 

“I will be the judge of that,” I replied.

 

I think he tried to smirk, but his mouth was twitching too much to be certain.

 

“Five years ago, my wife, Narcissa, asked for a divorce.”

 

This, I did not know. It had not been in the papers, then again, I did not read the papers often, and working in the bowels of the Ministry was not conducive to the usual gossip.

 

“It was an amicable parting,” he explained, as if defending his wife whom I barely knew. “But after she moved to Canada, I had a sort of breakdown,” he sighed. “Narcissa and I loved each other, love each other,” he corrected, more to himself than to me. “But we were not in love. Danger had brought us closer together. Draco had brought us closer together, but Draco married and left the Manor, wanting no part of his full inheritance as Lord…”

 

This, I did know. Draco Malfoy’s marriage to Astoria Greengrass had been quite an affair, or so I heard. Draco Malfoy was richer than ever before; he was gaining popularity in the Ministry, and all due his distancing from his father, Lucius, I imagined.

 

I did know that Lucius was still a pariah of sorts, or at least, he had been immediately after the War.

 

“I lost my handle on my senses, and I ended up drinking in a pub down Knockturn Alley one night.”

 

I tried not to snort. It would be just like a man to try to drink away his woes…

 

“Much of the night is still a blur to me, but I do know that at some point during the course of the evening, I offended several wizards, and a hag. I did not know it at the time, but I had offended a hag who was a descendant of Black Annis.”

 

I winced. Black Annis was a creature of folklore, but in the magical world, Black Annis was a famous hag who preyed on Muggle children to use their skins and blood for her arcane spells. Hags were not things you wanted to offend, thus, I could already see where Lucius’ story was heading.

 

“She cursed me. She cursed me to be unable to see any magical being, especially humans. It went further than that… Witches and Wizards could not see me either. Narcissa, Draco, my solicitor, my house elves—I did not exist to them, as if I had never been born. And I did not see them either, as if the world was suddenly empty.”

 

His voice became ragged, and slowly he rested his face in his hands, unable to look at me any longer. He was hiding his shame and mortification, I supposed, but he continued.

 

“I could not access my vault, the goblins could not see me, and I could not see them to ask for aid… I could not even get into my house; the wards did not recognize me. The only people who could see me were Muggles, and Muggles were all I saw.

 

This went on for a whole month before the hag appeared to me again in a copse of trees not far from the Malfoy lands. I had been staying there like a vagrant, hoping that Narcissa might return, or Draco, so I could follow them through the wards and into the Manor. But how would I be able to see them? Diagon Alley was empty to me, every magical place was devoid of witches, and wizards I had known all my life.

 

If I were in the Manor, I knew I could find food, I could bathe, and no one, not the elves would have any clue I was there at all…”

 

Lucius paused, his voice muffled through his fingers, and in the pause, he seemed to master himself and straightened to gaze at me again.

 

At this point, anger seeped into his voice, but it was not, for the first time in the evening, directed at me.

 

“The hag came to harass me, and I apologized. I groveled at her disgusting feet. Me, Lucius Malfoy, groveled!”

 

He expected me to laugh. I did not. I was not totally heartless, but I was not a bleeding heart either.

 

“She laughed at me, and she told me the conditions of the curse.

 

I could still use magic, but using it to draw attention to myself did not work. No one saw me, stared right through me. I had used magic to steal and to keep myself warm or cool, clean, and fed. It did not matter, however…

 

I tried to use magic on Muggles, but it was weak somehow, as if Muggles were resistant to my spells. I could not even use Unforgivables on them if I wanted…”

 

He trailed, his eyes growing distant. I allowed this, but soon, he was speaking again.

 

“The hag told me that for the rest of my natural life no magical being besides her and one other would ever see or hear me. As she was the one who cast the curse, she could harass me as often as she wished.

 

She called me an impotent lack-wit…a sad Lothario…a prince of fools. I remember I called her a putrid whore, and I remember I regretted it.

 

To see a hag rage is perhaps the most terrible thing I have ever seen, and I have seen much.”

 

Again, his eyes grew distant, fixing on the platform bed on the other side of the room past me.

 

“She told me what I had said to offend her, and to be honest, I did not think it at all something to be taken so seriously.”

 

I was intrigued suddenly. Why this curiosity suddenly peaked was another mystery. Of course, I wanted to know the how and why Lucius Malfoy was in his current state, but…

 

“What did you say?” I asked, leaning forward slightly.

 

“I quoted the Marquis de Sade.”

 

I blinked.

 

“It was a part of a quote, actually, and when the hag told it back to me, I remember what my mind’s reference had been.

 

‘No lover, if he be of good faith, and sincere, will deny he would prefer to see his mistress dead than unfaithful.’ I had been ranting about the reasons Narcissa may have wanted a divorce. Drunk and out of my mind, I had convinced myself she had left me for someone else. I ranted and raved about how women were the most terrible creatures, and that I, being wiser by experience, hated all women and would never love one.

 

It must have struck something in the hag, because she cursed me so profoundly that I would never again see Narcissa again. I still cannot understand what had offended the hag so much…

 

But it doesn’t really matter now.”

 

He looked to the window, the snow falling in heavy white curtains outside.

 

“I would see no witch or wizard, they would not see me. I could use my magic, but that too, did not matter so much after a while. The only ray of hope I had came when the hag finished the conditions of her curse.

 

There would be one witch in all the world that would see me, and I, her. This witch, the hag said, would be the one to break the curse.”

 

“Me,” I muttered, resisting the urge to roll my eyes.

 

I have mentioned that I love mysteries, but I should say, I love mysteries where I am not involved. I like being a spectator, not a participant—a detective, not a victim or suspect, or a key to the mystery itself.

 

“It would appear so,” he conceded none too happily.

 

Fairytales flew past the backs of my eyes; fairytales that made me want to laugh at the impossibility of it all.

 

I was on holiday for Merlin’s sake! I still had another week left, and I had planned to use the week to literally relax, not read, not do paperwork, not stress over the status of projects I had in the D of M.

 

“And this person the hag mentioned, how is she to break the spell?”

 

I knew I was going to regret asking.

 

Lucius Malfoy’s face seemed suddenly paler, his lips compressing to stop himself from curling it up in disgust.

 

“When I find this woman, I am to have her fall in love with me, and bed her.”

 

My lip did curl in disgust then, an expression Lucius wanted to use before me.

 

I was being punished for some indiscretion. This hag, whoever she was, was going to pay!

 

“How do I know that this is not just some…some…” I could not think of a word to describe it. I knew Lucius Malfoy, if he were truly Lucius Malfoy, would rather perform some depraved act of bestiality on a hippogriff than ever consider ‘falling in love’ with me.

 

This was not a prank, or a ploy to get me into some compromising position. What did Lucius Malfoy have to gain by even associating with me?

 

“A trick? I wish it were,” he sighed, his rough fingers swiping at a strand of hair that had fallen from the ribbon, which I realized was frayed, at the back of his neck.

 

I had a sudden thought.

 

“You were looking for me…”

 

He cleared his throat, uncomfortable. “Not you, personally, but the one witch whom the hag said would break the curse. I used a tracking spell I had created years ago when Draco was small…he had a penchant to wander off into the gardens and hide…”

 

He said no more, his voice thickening.

 

Silence fell heavy over us both, and I felt pity rising up in me again.

 

Lucius Malfoy, to see him with his near ragged clothes, his face revealing his depression, was pitiable.

 

However, I was not completely sold on the idea or the story he had spun.

 

“Prove it.”

 

He blinked, and the dark depression in his face, like a storm cloud, shifted to a stormy anger readily evident in his grey eyes.

 

“Prove it?” he asked, angry and incredulous.

 

He jumped to his feet, towering over me at over six feet in height.

 

“Prove it?” he asked again, and stalked a few heavy steps and began pacing maniacally again. “Prove it, she says…” he muttered to himself.

 

I rose from the armchair, mindful that his wand was still wedged in the seat cushion and out of sight. I smoothed my skirt down and pushed my curls over my left shoulder with my left hand while I twirled my wand, in agitation, in my right. I considered slipping the wand back into the well concealed holster on my inner thigh, Lucius had broke my second wand, but I held tight to the Vinewood, considering something else.

 

If no magical being could see Lucius Malfoy, and he could not see them, the most logical test was for me to bring the man near another witch or wizard. As it was, I was certain there were no witches or wizards in the province, but in the province of Veneto to the south—that was a different thing all together.

 

“Grab your cloak,” I growled to him, and moved, bare foot to where I had slipped out of my shoes.

 

Lucius stopped mid stride and stared at me. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the confusion on his face, an expression that made him appear young—young and lost.

 

“We’re going to Venice.”

 


	2. II

**II**

 

 

 

I never cared too much for Venice. It was beautiful, I will say this, but it reeked of sewage and was crowded with tourists. The canals stank of fetid water, garbage, and Merlin knows what else. The actual streets were filthy, dog feces everywhere. Compared to Trento, which was incredibly clean, Venice was a cesspool.

 

However, Venice was the home to a great number of witches and wizards who enjoyed the city as a tourist destination. Personally, I did not care if the city sank into the sea.

 

That being said, there was one place I did like in Venice, where I knew one being who I enjoyed speaking with when I was in Italy. Around the narrow corner of Calle dell’oca, before you reach Strada Nuova, is a tiny shop, almost insignificant compared to the overall grandeur of the wider Calle and Canals in Venice.

 

The sweet shop was like something out of a movie or book, a surreal place with large windows looking across to a bare stonewall of the narrow Calle. In the windows are displays of colours of every candy and confection imaginable.

 

Besides its location, the shop is unique in that it is open twenty-four hours a day. When the day workers have returned to the mainland and the tourists remain, the shop is, surprisingly, empty. The only things open at night along Strada Nuova are the cafes and bars, clubs and gelato shops. Most of the customers who come in after dark come from the Hotel Bernardi, a quaint two star establishment with a grouchy concierge.

 

Giacomo’s Confectionery is where I would take Lucius Malfoy. However, before I could get him out the door of my flat and past the Anti-Apparation wards, a problem arose.

 

“My wand?”

 

I had my hand on the doorknob, my coat on, my own wand in the pocket, only the short third time I had relinquished hold of it since Stunning the pale man.

 

I turned slowly. “Not until I can believe you still not use it to harm me?”

 

He loomed over me, so close that I had to press myself against the back of the door to look up at his angry face.

 

“My wand, woman!” he snarled, his hand out.

 

I blinked slowly. “Do you want the curse broken or not? Or do you want for the rest of your life to be seen only by Muggles and me, a Mudblood?”

 

The words struck at him and he stepped back.

 

He did not say another word, which surprised me. Of course, I was happy that he did not speak and when I spoke, he followed my direction. Lucius took my arm in his, and on the doorstep, we blinked away without a sound.

 

I knew I was in Venice immediately. It did not matter that it was the middle of winter—grand Venezia stank.

 

Lucius pulled his arm away from me a bit more violently than was proper and he looked around him in the dark Calle. We stood only a few feet from the bright windows of Giacomo’s Confectionery.

 

I moved and he followed. I peered past the displays to see the shop was empty of tourists, the hour only past eleven, but saw that Giacomo himself was sitting behind the counter, reading a newspaper.

 

Now, to explain, I was never allowed to call my only reason for ever visiting Venice ‘Giacomo.’ I was to call him James, and I was to speak to him in English. He preferred to speak to me in English as a sort of ‘practice.’ Giacomo, correction, James, liked the English language, and spoke the Queen’s English. Of course, it had been approximately one hundred and twenty years since he had visited London and the Queen was Victoria and not Elizabeth II, but James was a vampire, and retained everything in his supernaturally transformed brain.

 

If you were to ever ask James about himself, he would tell you to refer to his book, the one he wrote in his mortal life—‘Histoire de ma vie.’

 

Yes, James is Giacomo Girolamo Casanova de Seingalt, and if you were to meet him, you would call him a ‘casanova.’ As for me, I adored him for one thing—the information he had to impart about history and vampirism.

 

James was ‘made’ when he was fifty years old, and though his book covers his live to age fifty-three, there is no mention of his ‘transformation.’ History would record that the famous Casanova died in 1798, to which James would say: ‘I had to die at some point, lest I never become a legend,’ and then he would smile, barring his fangs in a type of leer.

 

For James, who had been fifty at the time he was ‘turned,’ he was still roguishly handsome as a vampire. However, anyone who might be wondering why James, the real Casanova, and a vampire, would own and run a confectionery shop during the dead hours of night in Venice, the reason is simple. The scent of sugar lessened the other smells of Venice.

 

James often said that Venice, in his youth, smelled much worse, but with his heightened sense of smell, Venice still reeked.

 

As I pushed into the shop, a tiny bell tinkling softly, James was already folding his paper and smiling, close-lipped, at me.

 

“Ah, Hermione, how wonderful to see you!” he beamed, coming around the counter; his arms open to embrace me.

 

I heard Lucius make a strange sound behind me, and I knew that he could see what James was.

 

I will say this about Italian vampires: they have far more class than the vampires in Britain. I hate to disparage my homeland, even a little, but when it comes to vampires, the Italians have the Britons beat. British vampires are so morbid, as they probably should be, but Italian vampires are bright and beautiful creatures, who happen to like drinking human blood.

 

James was one such vampire, and I had no qualms in allowing him to embrace me and kiss both my cheeks. He must have fed, for his lips were soft and warm.

 

James was not a tall man by any means, having come from an age where six feet was considered gigantic. He was, however, very fit under his black jumper and finely cut trousers. His hair, which was a riotous mass of light auburn curls, framed his matured face, giving it a glow of humanity. His dark blue eyes studied my face, and then he frowned.

 

“Why are you here? Don’t mistake me, darling, but it is cold out, and you look as if you have had bad news.”

 

Did I mention that he spoke the Queen’s English perfectly, which made his voice sumptuously seductive?

 

I took a step back, but held James’ delicately manicured hand, and glanced to Lucius whose face was contorted in a picture of hesitation and disbelief. It was entirely possible that Lucius Malfoy knew what Casanova might look like from the various portraits that survived from the time James had been alive. The hair, which was usually covered by a wig, was a change, but the deep blue eyes, the sharp nose, and the bowed lips…

 

“I can see him,” he whispered.

 

I cocked my head.

 

“What is it?” James asked, glancing to Lucius.

 

James did not see Lucius.

 

“Is it because you are holding his hand?” Lucius said, his hand moving to his lips in a pose of thought.

 

I released James’ hand, and Lucius frowned.

 

“I can still see him.”

 

“Hermione?”

 

I sighed and turned back to my friend, the vampire Casanova.

 

“James, I hate to be mysterious, but…”

 

“A mystery?” James purred and I could not repress a small smile.

 

The real Casanova tried to charm me often enough, but now was not the time.

 

“Is there only the two of us in the shop?”

 

James’ light auburn brows knitted, and he lifted his chin. He was listening.

 

“I sent Petra home at dusk…and Lorenzo is not in the backrooms…” he mumbled, mentioning his employees, but he listened still. “There is something…”

 

Lucius stepped to my right elbow, watching James’ face intently.

 

Then James sniffed the air.

 

“Are you sure this is not some game, Hermione? A new type of foreplay?”

 

I twittered nervously, a habit I had developed during the conversations I had with James since meeting him during my first visit to Venice for a consortium eight years before. James had a way, vampiric or not, to make me feel dirty.

 

“There’s a warmth, just there…” he said, tipping his head directly at Lucius.

 

“You see no one?” I asked, my twitter gone.

 

“No one.”

 

I sighed and glanced to Lucius.

 

“Is it a ghost? Oh, I wish I could see ghosts,” he laughed.

 

Fact: vampires could not see ghosts. Why? Another mystery that probably did not warrant investigation in the eyes of the D of M, but an interesting mystery to me nonetheless…

 

“No, not a ghost…”

 

“Are you satisfied?” Lucius hissed very close to my ear, and James did not hear it.

 

James studied me, curious, but before he could say another word, I took his hand again.

 

“I am sorry, James, but I really need to go. If I promise to be back next week, will you forgive my behaviour?”

 

The vampire’s face softened. “I would forgive you anything,” he purred, but in his eyes, I could tell he was somewhat concerned.

 

Casanova, vampire or living, was never one to begrudge a woman for long. I was, to James, a conquest in only the ‘first act’ in which he would indulge me much before moving on to the ‘second act’ of active pursuit, and to the final and ‘third act,’ which I am sure most people could imagine. Of course, these ‘acts’ he used while alive, as a vampire, however, I was sure the ‘third act’ was altered slightly.

 

Fact: vampires, at least Italian vampires, enjoy sex. It is part of their nature, and in being a sexual creature, vampires subsist. Personally, I could never see myself in the throes of passion with a dead thing, then again, considering the state of my love life; I could imagine almost anything without feeling too disgusted with my fantasies.

 

I was out the door of the shop and stalking toward Strada Nuova in a matter of seconds, only taking the time to kiss James’ cooling cheek again in a sort of promise, or a tease, depending on how one looked at it. Lucius Malfoy was on my heels.

 

It occurred to me that Lucius, without a wand, was depending on me quite a bit. I knew it had to gall him to be dependant on me, a girl old enough to be his daughter, and a Muggleborn to boot. Yet, he followed me as I stepped onto the wider Strada Nuova, my eyes moving up the street where I saw only a handful of people moving in the cold night air.

 

“How could I see him?” Lucius demanded, gliding to block my path as I started up the street toward a bar I knew visiting witches and wizards frequented, though I did not know if any were in Venice this time of year.

 

I stopped short, Lucius blocking me with his sheer size. He was larger than I, taller, definitely, and compared to my size, like a boulder in my path.

 

“How should I know?” I retorted.

 

We were caught in a ‘glaring’ game.

 

“A vampire? How is he really a ‘magical’ being?” he came back.

 

True. James was not a wizard in life. However, he was supernatural, which fell into the category of ‘magical.’ Still yet, James could not see Lucius, but sensed something that only preternatural senses could catch.

 

“I’ll prove it once and for all, then,” I huffed, gliding around Lucius to continue down the street.

 

James was the first part of the test, I told myself, but if the second part proved Lucius’ story, I knew I had a real problem on my hands.

 

The bar was more like a dance club for tourists that sold bad drinks and played bad music. In the winter, it was barely open. The club, whose name I never knew, was off the Strada Nuova near an American Muggle fast food restaurant, which I thought had no place in Venice.

 

I breezed past the dozing doorman, Lucius behind me. The club was playing something by Freddie Mercury who still enjoyed heightened celebrity in Italy decades after his death. No one was dancing, and the few patrons were at the bar.

 

The only reason I had ever come into this establishment before was with James, who liked to look at the badly dressed tourists making arses of themselves, drunk, and looking for some excitement in the ancient city. There was also the witches and wizards who came in. The barman was a wizard, called Stefano, a bulky bald man in his forties, who had his wand strapped to his chest, concealed from Muggle eyes. I wondered if he had used it in the club if the tourists got too rowdy.

 

It was Stefano who I would use for the second part of my test.

 

At the bar, I waited for him to finish mixing a weak cocktail and pass it to a bored looking woman in her late thirties.

 

“Signorina?”

 

I ordered a glass of red wine, in English.

 

“And for my friend, the same.”

 

“Tuo amico?” Stefano asked, blinking rapidly.

 

He looked to me, an eyebrow quirked as if I were barmy.

 

“Si, mio amico,” I insisted in Italian.

 

Stefano laughed, but was not amused.

 

I then asked if he could see ‘my friend’ standing, again, just at my right elbow. The barman then asked if I were already drunk.

 

The Italian wizard did not see Lucius.

 

Nevermind, I said, just one glass.

 

And one glass it was, and it was foul. The wine made me appreciate the small cantina where I ordered the wine I used at my flat all the more. I paid, finding a few loose one Euro coins in my left coat pocket, and with Lucius hissing at me, I moved out to the street again.

 

I ignored him, as if I were the one who could not see Lucius Malfoy, lost in thought. I did not stop walking until I was atop the arch of one of the many bridges that cross the lesser canals, trying not to think much of the cold or the smell.

 

“Do you believe it now?”

 

He stood before me as I leaned back into the high marble balustrade.

 

“I really do not know what to think,” I admitted, shoving my hands into my coat pockets.

 

Lucius sighed deeply. “Nor do I, not for five years.”

 

I gazed at him then, wondering.

 

The hag, whose name I wish I knew, had cursed Lucius Malfoy to never be able to interact with the only people he ever knew—magical folk, bar one. Me.

 

Why me?

 

Was it because I was some sort of symbol to Lucius Malfoy, just as I had been for his son? I was called the ‘brightest witch of the age,’ but I never believed it. I was a Muggleborn who happened to be quite intelligently, highly logical, and hard working. I had to be hard working in the Wizarding world, or no one would take me seriously.

 

What did I mean to Lucius Malfoy? We never had much of an acquaintance outside of the fact that his son and I were rivals in almost every sense.

 

Fall in love, make love, and break the curse.

 

It was just too ridiculous.

 

I had enjoyed a life of few complications since the War. I had my job, which I loved, and I was unattached, which made it able for me to love my job. Ron and I had run out of emotional fuel eight years before, but were still great friends. Harry had married, had a family, and I? I was married to my job and my freedom.

 

I was not a spinsterish thing by any means. I had had lovers ala my friend Casanova. Love intensely for a while, have mutual satisfaction, and walk away with a smile. I had no desire to truly ‘fall in love,’ let alone with a man I could hate so easily.

 

Yet, looking at Lucius Malfoy shiver as a cold wind blew from the north, rustling his hair and his tatty cloak, I could not help but wonder. He was attractive, if you liked tall, pale, and rude.

 

As I had mentioned before, he was fit, maybe a little too thin, but fit. He had aged well, and I supposed, despite his desperate situation, he had tried hard to appear as regal as he had years ago when people remembered who he was.

 

If you could look past the depression that clung to him like a foul odour, and the fact that he had tried to kill you and your friends in the past, I supposed Lucius Malfoy was indeed attractive.

 

I wanted to speak to this hag.

 

I pushed off the balustrade and pulled my coat tighter around me. It was getting late, and I was getting tired. As I began to walk along Strada Nuova, Lucius followed in pensive silence.

 

Veering off the street and through a gate to a small church, I turned to grasp his arm, startling him. We were out of sight well enough that I drew him near into Side-Along Apparation.

 

Lucius Malfoy, though he thought his situation hopeless, would not simply leave me alone now that he had found me. The idea of Lucius Malfoy, ex-Death Eater, ex-figure of British Wizarding society, searching Europe and Merlin knows where else, for a witch who could ‘see’ him seemed like a premise from a fairytale. Of course, he did not know whom he was searching for exactly, but he searched all the same.

 

He was still following me when I entered my flat in Trento, like a strange shadow.

 

He would not simply leave me just because I was Hermione Granger.

 

And so it was that I felt I had power over him, though he snarled and scowled at how I used this power.

 

I told him that he was filthy, and if he were to continue being within my personal ‘bubble,’ he would need a wash.

 

“How dare you!” he began to rage, even as his fingers moved to unclasp his cloak and let it fall back on the ottoman in my tiny living room. “I am not filthy!”

 

I ignored him, moving to a small closet near the small lavatory, pulling out clean linens to stack atop the sink in the room behind the kitchen area. It was a lavatory with a standard toilet, a large vanity sink, and a large bathtub with handheld shower attached to the facet that could be activated with a switch you turned on the extension at the base of the hose for the showerhead. All in all, it was not very large, but it was clean.

 

“I will leave your ablutions to you, surely you know how to wash yourself without an elf’s help?” I chided, grumpy that I would not be able to use the bath myself.

 

I did not trust him alone in my apartment, he was an unwelcome guest, but one I could not simply turn away until I understood more.

 

He said something foul, and stalked past me to slam the lavatory door. I was sure my downstairs neighbors had heard the banging, and I dreaded what my landlady would say when I saw her next. I liked my little flat, I liked Trento, and I would not allow someone like Lucius Malfoy ruin my comfortable holiday retreat.

 

When I heard the water begin to run, I moved to the living room, and quickly moved to the armchair where Lucius’ wand was still hidden. I shoved it down further into the armchair, making sure that when I, or anyone, sat next, it would not snap the dark wood wand into pieces. I was not sure how long I should keep his wand hidden from him, but by the state of him… He might not think much about it for a while.

 

I went about the flat, and then thinking of something important, drew my own wand from my coat, which I yet to doff, and with a flick of Vinewood, Summoned his clothing. The bathroom door opened just wide enough for the ragged and stained clothing to float to me, and as there was no sound of protest from within, Lucius had not seemed to notice.

 

I assumed he was laying in the tub, the water having shut off as I was stuffing his wand further into the armchair. I could imagine him lying back with a dark expression on his face, his eyes closed. I shook my head roughly as I began to imagine what his body looked like submerged under the hot bathwater.

 

Turning my attention to the clothing hanging from my left hand, I sat down on the foot of my bed and dropped the clothing lightly on the floor before me. I then proceeded to search his pockets.

 

This act only gave me a little guilt, I was never one to blatantly snoop, but as it was, I felt I deserved to know more, if anything, I could discern from the contents of his trouser pockets. I found the ten Euro note, and a dingy man’s handkerchief, and nothing else.

 

Then, I moved to his cloak, absently tossed over the ottoman, and began searching the small inner hidden pockets along the soft, but also dingy deep green satin of the inner lining. I found where he would stow his wand, and I found a pocket full of what looked to be pumpkin seeds, dried and edible. Frowning, I found a clipping of Draco and Astoria Malfoy, a formal wedding portrait from the Society page of the Daily Prophet. The clipping was folded so Draco’s pale face moving slowly over the newsprint was cropped to feature only the young man. The newsprint was worn over Draco’s face, making the enchantment sluggish to make the image move.

 

I also found a scrap of parchment with the name ‘Lucius Abraxas Malfoy,’ written perhaps a hundred or more times in pencil. Every available space on the parchment was covered with the name, printed, or written in flowing script. Perhaps it was something Lucius used to remind himself that he did exist? Proof that someone with the name Lucius Abraxas Malfoy did walk the earth?

 

The gravity of the pale man’s situation had me sitting donw the ottoman.

 

To never see the ones you loved, but knowing that they could be just before your face? To never be seen by the ones you loved, as if you had never existed?

 

Had it truly been something so stupidly trivial that caused the hag to curse Lucius Malfoy so profoundly?

 

I needed to find this hag. If not to negotiate a way so that I would not have to be the one Lucius Malfoy thought he had to woo and bed, but to break the curse entirely. I wanted to be no part of a hag’s curse, even if I had simply been chosen by fate so I would be the one Lucius Malfoy would see…

 

The sound of shifting water broke me from my thoughts, and I searched the last pocket, finding only crumbs. He had been hiding food in his cloak, and this fact left a sour taste in my mouth. Someone like Lucius Malfoy would never have guessed how dire it was to have to hoard food, surely. However, if his situation had humbled him at all, I could not easily see it. Beneath his desperation, there was still a maniacal pride, and I know how the saying goes about pride and falling, I wonder if Lucius did.

 

I went about trying to clean his clothing. I had nothing to offer him in the way of clean clothes short of Transfiguring something simple. I wondered when the last time had been that he had the chance to remove his clothing in safety to cast the simplest cleansing spells.

 

The brown stain on his neck cloth came out after three spells, and I easily repaired the fraying at the cuffs of his trouser legs. I even found a ten-cent Euro to Transfigure into a button for his doublet, though the button was copper instead of silver, and used a sewing Charm to put it into place. I used another Charm to make his undershirt pristinely white, and another to repair the cracked leather of his slim belt.

 

To be honest, I felt good about mending his clothes, but a part of me wondered why I should care at all.

 

Pity—that was the only thing I could think of.

 

I noted that he had no underclothes to speak of, and again my mind whirled before I shook my head again settling my thoughts in the proper places. Before I heard him lift out of the water, I sent the clothing via Charm, back into the bathroom, and thought no more of it.

 

I decided then, that I only play generous for one night.

 

Perhaps I am a cold hearted woman after all, but to be honest, I felt as if my retreat, my holiday had been ruined. I almost wanted to return to my only slightly larger flat in London and disappear into the darkness in the Department of Mysteries, and never see the light of day again.

 

Drastic? Of course. Playing the unwilling host to Lucius Malfoy had put me into a very black mood.

 

I would do what I could to keep him far enough out of my notice. I would give him money, if need be, while in the meantime, I would do what I could to set him back where he belonged—his bloody Manor with his bloody elves.

 

When the door to the bathroom opened, a dramatic roll of scented steam followed Lucius Malfoy out. He was dressed in only his mended trousers and the white undershirt that was more fitting for a man of the Romantic era than a man moving and breathing in the Twenty-first century. Wizarding fashion, yet another of the world’s mysteries…

 

Of course, my eyes were drawn to him, and I could not help but admire what I saw.

 

Barefoot, with his long pale hair damp, his now clean, pale hands using one of my fluffy white towels to dab and rub at the long, slightly wavy tresses that fell over his left shoulder. He looked a good sight better, and smelled like my soap, and my shampoo, which I found disturbing.

 

He moved to lean against the back of the armchair, his hands moving the towel into his hair, crossing his ankles, and gazing at me with an odd smirk on his lips.

 

He had shaven. Merlin, he must have used the Muggle razor I used for my legs, among other things!

 

I shuddered, making a mental note to throw the razor away. Yet, a satisfaction followed the disgust, seeing that he had nicked himself and that he obviously did not know what I had used the razor for.

 

I snorted a laugh, and Lucius’ hands paused in drying his hair.

 

“What’s so damn funny?”

 

My snort turned into a rib gripping laughter. I delighted myself in what I could—to be able to laugh at the fact that I might have a little power over Lucius Malfoy, was a boon.

 

Lucius, obviously, was not amused, and decided to ignore me and continue drying his hair. Minutes passed until my mirth melted into a wide, ridiculous smile.

 

There was time for delight, and there was time for business.

 

“Did the hag who cursed you have a name?” I asked, a hint of laughter still in my voice.

 

Lucius, uncharacteristic to what I knew of him, sighed in frustration. “Are you still not convinced of what I have said?”

 

I shrugged. “It seems logical that if what you say is true, that I should want to know the name of the hag who has somehow bound you to be the one who will break your curse.”

 

He said nothing, but stared at me, surprised.

 

“I did not ask for this…” I muttered, my mirth dissolving.

 

I rose from the foot of the bed, and moved to the door where I finally shrugged out of my coat and slipped out of my shoes. I twirled my wand between my fingers, shoved it into my pinned back hair so it stuck out like an antennae from my head.

 

Turning back to where Lucius Malfoy stood, I was struck at how casually he seemed to be drying his hair in my flat. Standing before the large dark windows, he was at ease, but thinking. Lucius Malfoy and ‘casual’ should never go into the same thought.

 

The surreality of the evening, again, crashed down upon me.

 

I wanted him gone.

 

“Edwinia Glump,” he said almost too softly for me to hear, but I did hear, and I frowned.

 

Personally, I do not know many hags, in fact, I only know of one, and it was not Edwinia Glump. The name was wholly alien to me.

 

“We will have to find her.”

 

Lucius stiffened, the damp towel falling from his hands to land on his bare feet.

 

“Find her?” he whispered, and the horror was evident in his face as I moved back into the room to go to a small chest of drawers near the side of the bed. “Are you mad?” he bellowed, causing me to turn away from opening the drawer to find a clean and matronly night gown to wear.

 

“I _have_ been called that, but no,” I uttered smoothly, turning my face to him as he grasped the back of the armchair so firmly that his already pale hands became whiter still.

 

I lifted my chin, and my eye hardened. “If I have been dragged into your situation, obviously unwillingly, I want to know why and how to get out of it. Unless…” I trailed, my eyes narrowing. “Unless you want to ‘woo’ me and ‘bed’ me.”

 

Such a thing… It was madness. Falling in love with Lucius Malfoy? I would have to have myself Obliviated of all the bad memories I had of the man to ever consider that he might be someone worthy to love. I did not hate him, per se, but I disliked him immensely. Lucius Malfoy was very easy to dislike.

 

The idea of wooing and bedding me seemed just as distasteful to the pale man, and he recomposed himself quickly.

 

I turned my thoughts back to the present situation—Lucius Malfoy and my seemingly abundant generosity.

 

I Transfigured the ottoman into a narrow cot, and instructed him to sleep there. As for me, I only took the time to wash my face and don my nightgown, under my thick bathrobe, and turned off the lights.

 

As if sensing that my generosity was fragile, Lucius Malfoy said nothing and lay down, using his cloak as a blanket. I wondered if he had slept under his cloak often.

 

I slipped into my own bed, but did not lie down. I pulled my wand from my still pinned hair and gripped it tightly. Resting back into the pillows, I more sat in bed than relaxed. My eyes adjusted to the darkness in the small flat, and soon the city lights glowing off the snowy rooftops out the window lit the room in a dull grey glow. Lucius lay on his right side, his right arm folded under his still slightly damp hair, the cloak pulled up to his chin. I could not see his feet, they were pointed toward me, as he had curled his legs under the cloak in a semi-foetal position.

 

I listened to his breathing, and for what seemed like an eternity, noted the change as sleep took him.

 

It was then I relaxed and slid down under the comforter of the bed.

 

I did not sleep. Tired, I was most definitely, but not sleepy. My mind was buzzing, my adrenaline still working through my blood from the moment Lucius Malfoy kicked me in the chest and broke my second wand. In the vanity mirror earlier, I saw that I did have a boot sized bruise on my chest, just above my breasts and below of my collarbone. I did not have any bruise healing paste, and knew I would have to glamour the bruise if I decided to wear anything low cut in the coming days.

 

Oddly, I was not angry about the bruise. It did not especially hurt, but it was unattractive, reminding me of years long past when bruises, scrapes, and injuries were common.

 

The War…

 

In the light coming in from the outside, Lucius Malfoy’s pale hair gleamed silver, and as I looked at it, I could not help but reminisce. In reminiscing, the pity I had held for the man, diminished.

 

He had brought it on himself, his fall from grace.

 

Edwinia Glump, hag or no, would feel the full fury of my hellish wrath if in some way I were chosen specifically to break Lucius Malfoy’s curse.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I must have fallen asleep, for when my mind became aware of the situation; Lucius Malfoy was ripping apart my finely red upholstered armchair in the light of a winter morning.

 

He was fully dressed, his hair combed, but not tied back at the nape of his neck. His face was a mask of fury, and under his breath, he muttered curses.

 

My body reacted to the violence of red upholstery and stuffing flying through the air, and I bolted up from the bed.

 

I hexed him, and just as the night before, he stumbled back, tripped over the Transfigured ottoman, and tumbled gracelessly to the hardwood floor on the other side.

 

I flopped back into the bed and groaned. The chair had cost me a couple galleons, shipped from Milan, and a particularly comfortable piece of furniture. Lucius did not make a sound, though I could see that one of his booted feet rested on the edge of the Transfigured ottoman, limply.

 

Rolling out of bed, adjusting the tangled bathrobe about my waist, I padded over to the Transfigured ottoman and peered over the edge. Lucius Malfoy was gasping, his face still a mask of fury. He did move, and I, still wondering if I were asleep, shrugged, and turned to my ruined armchair.

 

I found his wand stuck between the seat, sans cushion, and the arm of the chair. Slipping it into the pocket of my bathrobe, I then padded to the bathroom. I showered.

 

This act, one might think, was one that would invite disaster, being vulnerable, but when I emerged from the bathroom, very much awake and dressed in a pair of baggy khakis and a large knit military green jumper, Lucius was still on the floor. I knew the hex had not been too strong, and that he was simply lying on the floor, with both boot heels resting naturally, brooding.

 

“Coffee?” I asked with an amused chirp.

 

“Black,” he replied from the floor.

 

And so, another day began, albeit, strangely.


	3. III

**III**

 

 

 

I gave him five hundred Euro after using the automated teller machine down the street from my flat. He blinked at me, not sure what to do with the notes in his hand.

 

I smiled at him, but my expression was not kind. I was telling him, without saying a word, to go away. I had fed him, cleaned him, and now I wanted him to go away.

 

“My wand.”

 

Sighing, I pulled the dark wood wand from my coat pocket and slapped it into his hand.

 

“Use it against me, and you will not live long enough to regret it,” I whispered as a Muggle couple passed by us, eyeing Lucius curiously.

 

He smirked, and I knew what he was thinking. Killing him would bring the Italian Magical authorities on me, and not him, they would not see him, and I would have to explain why I was using a Killing Curse on thin air in the middle of a Muggle street.

 

I sniffed, and turning on my heel stalked back toward Via Rosmini.

 

Lucius Malfoy did not follow me, but I felt his eyes upon my back until I turned the corner and began to jog along the busy Via Rosmini toward the bus depot. I wanted to get as far away from him as I could. I could have Disapparated as soon as I found a secluded place to do so, but I jogged instead, my Muggle trainers getting good traction on the cleaned sidewalks.

 

A little hiccup in my plans, that was what I thought to myself over and over again. If Lucius Malfoy had not accosted me, and I had not aided him, I had planned on taking a bus to Stenico that day and tour the castle, something I never was able to do before during my visits.

 

I bought my ticket, boarded the bus, and was out of Trento in perhaps twenty minutes of leaving Lucius Malfoy with a handful of one hundred Euro notes.

 

I should mention that I have a wonderful salary as an Unspeakable. I live quite frugally, and save. Giving Lucius Malfoy five hundred Euro was not going to set me back at all. Of course, it was not much money, but it was enough to get him a few meals, a small hotel room, and perhaps an idea to stay away.

 

There was the matter of this curse, but I had decided, watching him drink my coffee in my kitchen, that I would investigate one Edwinia Glump when I had had my fill of Northern Italy before returning to Britain.

 

I went to Stenico; I toured the castle and viewed the primitive frescoes, and enjoyed my solitude. I had only bought a one way bus ticket, and Apparated back to Trento just as night began to darken the sky at about six in the evening.

 

Lucius Malfoy was not haunting the lobby of my apartment building, and he was not in my flat. Except for two things, I would not have known Lucius Malfoy had ever been in my flat. First, and most obvious, was my ruined armchair. I did some impressive Charm work to repair it, but it still did not look as nice as it had before. I had already dispelled the Transfiguration on the ottoman when I coaxed Lucius out with me to give him the money.

 

The second thing, which I found as I was brushing my teeth before bed, was the ragged dark green ribbon he had used to pull back his hair resting on tiled floor under the foot of the sink. It was a forgotten piece of him, and I stared at it near my toes for a long while, my toothbrush hanging out of my mouth.

 

I, for some stupid reason, stuffed it in my coat pocket as I left the bathroom for bed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The difference between my Trento flat and my Islington flat was the color of my bedding and furniture and that in Britain; the far wall in the living slash bedroom is lined with books stacked floor to ceiling on bowing wood slat shelves. To be honest, I hate having too much space because in my mind, it is just more to clean. The floor plans are similar, but instead of large floor to ceiling windows as I had in Trento, my Islington flat had large two sash windows and space to sit on the sill.

 

Simplicity, that was my preferred aesthetic. In Trento, simplicity is much easier to obtain, since the flat there was used for my holidays and quick weekend retreats, and it was newer, as I had not had the time to clutter it up yet.

 

There was also the matter of Crookshanks, who seemed to be eternal, and shed on everything I owned. I dared not take him to Trento, and while I was gone, Ron fed him as he lived only a Tube stop away from me.

 

Speaking of Ron, besides the occasional lunch or favour, we rarely saw each other. He worked above in the Ministry, I below. The same could be said with Harry, who was far too busy to do a favour for me as he now had a family to take up his time.

 

When I returned to my Islington flat a week after meeting a certain ‘invisible’ Malfoy, I found that Ron had already been by that day and set out cat kibble for Crooks. He left a note on the kitchen counter, asking about his souvenir from my long awaited extended holiday.

 

I had bought little in the way of souvenirs. Besides my carpetbag of clothes, I had brought back a bowl of minestrone, a new batch than the one I had given to Lucius Malfoy. I could never prepare a pot of minestrone in my Islington flat as well as I could as when I was in Italy…

 

In the week after walking away from the man with the money I had placed in his hand, I was as good as my word to meet with James in Venice before I left. The vampire did not mention my odd behaviour and treated me to a late night tour of the Gallerie dell’Accademia, and I nearly forgot why I had imposed myself on my supernatural friend in the first place. Late night, candle lit tours of art galleries was a secret delight.

 

By the time I was back at work, I was still grappling with the idea of what Lucius Malfoy had told me.

 

Edwinia Glump was registered with the Ministry, as all hags were. Hags were still classified as ‘magical creatures,’ though everyone knew how much hags resented being considered ‘creatures.’ All the same, hags, if they did not want to be hounded by the Aurors, were registered.

 

I was not surprised to find that Edwinia Glump was a resident of Number 48 Apartment C, Knockturn Alley.

 

Hags, as every student at Hogwarts learned in their basic DADA courses, is a human-like female, a magical being, not quite a witch, and usually unpleasant to look upon. Where hags came from, is, again, another one of the world’s mysteries. However, it is well known, you do not, under any circumstances, offend a hag. And if what Lucius said was true, if Edwinia Glump was spawned of Black Annis, whatever curse was put upon him would not be broken by the magic of human witches or wizards. A hag’s magic was ancient and powerful, working along a level that no human could obtain.

 

This led me to believe that hags were a sort of natural creature as much as a dryad or naiad was an embodiment and representation of the natural magic that existed in the earth itself.

 

At any rate, I went to Knockturn Alley three days after returning to work, and found Number 48 lodged between a pub and a boarded up apothecary.

 

I knew that I could potentially be walking into more trouble than Lucius Malfoy was worth, but if I were somehow involved in the workings of a powerful curse, I wanted to know more as to why.

 

The corridor outside Apartment C reeked of urine and rubbish, and I could hear rats somewhere chewing away at what sounded like teeth against bone. I could not repress a shudder, but I knocked tentatively on the door and took a step back.

 

The door opened immediately, banging open, more like it, and in the doorway, with bluish smoke wafting out in sickeningly sweet waves, was a short, hairy, and bulging eyed hag.

 

Edwinia Glump looked like a cross between Mad-Eye Moody in drag, and Hagrid’s fur dress suit, only in black. The hag’s long, lank black hair hanged to what I assumed was her waist, and under it, she wore a pink dress ala Dolores Umbridge. If the hag were not so disgustingly hideous, she would have looked comical.

 

She reeked of acidic overcooked potions, and her face was like melted yellow wax, and warty to boot. Her bulging black eyes considered me for a moment and then she smiled, her long, yellowed teeth crooked and riddled with rot. She stood as tall as I did, but her height only seemed to compress her features in an unflattering way.

 

“What a pretty young witch!” she exclaimed, but her voice took me aback.

 

Edwinia Glump had the voice of a seductress, smooth and silky, and not at all fitting with her body.

 

I hid my amazement, and straightened.

 

“Edwinia Glump?” I asked, trying to keep my voice level and businesslike.

 

“I am she?”

 

Again, the voice, which I thought might have a trace of enchantment.

 

“Hermione Granger.”

 

On habit, I extended my hand to her, and she stared at it as if I were offering her a dead cat, which, I should add, would appeal to a hag. To my disgust, she took it and shook roughly. Her hands felt as her face looked, like melted wax, but with long painted red nails and several silver rings, simple bands, about her thumb and smallest finger.

 

I resisted the urge to wipe my hand into my wool coat when the hag released it.

 

“Are you selling something, darling?”

 

I swallowed. “No, madam, I am here to inquire about a curse you cast approximately five years ago.”

 

No need to ‘beat around the bush,’ as they say.

 

Immediately, the hag’s black eyes became less bulbous and narrowed.

 

“Are you from the Ministry?”

 

“I am, but I am not here on Ministry business, madam,” I quickly clarified. “I am here on personal business.”

 

Again, Edwinia Glump studied me, and as if finding me suiting, she smiled again.

 

“Come in,” she purred.

 

I did not want to enter her residence, but she beckoned with her waxen hand and long fingernails.

 

“I shall not let any harm to come to you, young lady,” she purred again.

 

I followed, albeit, mechanically, and entered the sharply scented flat, letting the hag close me in with the slamming of the door. She pushed me gently into the main room, which was half the size of my living room, perhaps less, and through the bluish, acrid smoke, I found the couch the hag pointed to. The piece of furniture was lumpy though it was draped with an intricately crocheted throw in reds and blues.

 

“Tea?” the hag asked from somewhere behind me.

 

“No thank you, madam, I would rather not take too much of your time,” I said honestly, and tried not to cough from the smoke.

 

“Suit yourself…Miss Granger, was it?”

 

The hag shuffled, not walked, around the couch, to sit across from me in an equally lumpy armchair with another crocheted throw draped over the form, this time in black and silver.

 

“Yes, madam.”

 

“And you say you are here on a personal matter concerning a curse I cast five years ago?”

 

The smooth purr was disconcerting, and I sat on the edge of the couch, holding my coat closed at the hem, knowing that my wand was in my coat pocket and within easy grasp.

 

I only nodded, afraid if I opened my mouth, I would begin coughing.

 

“Then you are the one,” the hag chuckled throatily, and clapped her strange waxen hands together.

 

I, again, only nodded, but I wondered why I should have…

 

“So, you’ll be wanting to know the details, eh? Why I cursed that fool? Why you think you are being singled out?”

 

“N-naturally,” I answered, trying not to sneeze as a tickle reached my sinuses.

 

The hag sat back in her chair and smirked, making her nearly non-existent lips curl.

 

“You know the man I cursed, I presume.”

 

Unfortunately, I wanted to say, but only nodded again, trying to ignore the growing tickle in the back of my throat.

 

“Then you also know he is a conniving little human bastard who would warrant a curse.”

 

I said nothing.

 

The hag’s bulbous eyes narrowed again, and she was considering her words.

 

“Five years…not nearly long enough. Then again, to break the curse, he has to fall in love, mutually, and that in itself might just prove impossible.”

 

The cruelty of the curse was well constructed I had to concede.

 

“He must have told you that he offended me. That he did. The night I cursed him, I suppose I was in a very foul mood, and maybe I should have stayed home instead of popping down to the pub for a few pints of bitters…”

 

The hag was almost unaware of me, talking more to herself than to anyone.

 

“Human men,” she muttered in disgust and then seemed to realize I was listening, and smiled. “Do you have someone?”

 

The question made me squirm, as it was very personal.

 

“No.”

 

The hag tutted. “A pretty little thing like you not having a man…” And she laughed again, her laughter like a husky roar of a lioness in heat.

 

“That man, Malfoy, he came into the pub under a storm cloud, and as he drank, the storm filled the pub. I will admit, I was slightly intoxicated, but he…he was well on his way to drinking himself to death…running his pretty little mouth about how horrible all women were, how deceitful, how disgusting, how manipulative.

 

I was intrigued at first, but as he went on, I grew disgusted. The filth that came from him was just as bad as my granny’s…”

 

The hag paused, not explaining what she meant by her ‘granny’s filth,’ but I had an idea. Hags, as a general rule, are quite foul mouthed. Edwinia Glump, I imagined, was quite refined, for a hag.

 

“Even the landlord was getting a bit perturbed by Malfoy’s filth. So crass, coming from a man like him…”

 

The hag’s eyes grew distant, and her mouth curled into a strange smile that would make Voldemort shy away.

 

“Then,” she sighed, continuing, “he turned his attentions to the other patrons in the pub, insulting them, or hanging on them as if they were old school chums. Everyone knew who he was, of course, and even the worst of us try to keep our distance from an ex-Death Eater.

 

You can take the power from a man, but not his demons…” she mused.

 

I finally had to cough, and the hag smirked. The smoke was still wafting from somewhere in the flat, but I was too concerned with keeping my attention on the hag, who might slit my throat as look at me, than finding out if the ramshackle apartment building were on fire.

 

“He insulted me,” the hag said simply.

 

“Lucius mentioned quoting something?” I supplied, my coughing subsiding, but leaving a terrible itch and throb in my throat.

 

The hag snorted, waving a red nailed hand toward me. “Posh, just overly romantic nonsense interspersed with bile.

 

He called me beautiful.”

 

I blinked, and involuntarily cocked my head to stare at the hag. Again, the hag was laughing.

 

“That is really what offended me. He did not tell me I was beautiful because the bottle had somehow made his vision change, magical rose coloured lens descending from the heavens to rest before his eyes…he called me beautiful as an insult.”

 

Imagining it, I could see what the hag meant. A subtle phrasing of words, a tone of voice, something as complimentary as calling a woman, or a hag, beautiful, could be turned into a grievous insult.

 

“He went on, unable to denigrate anyone but the only female creature in the pub that night. I was a terrible goddess, his Kali, his Circe, his wife…”

 

The hag fell silent, and her waxen face contorted.

 

“I hate human men,” she muttered angrily. “So pompous…”

 

The black eyes fell upon me, and in them, I could see she was appealing to me somehow. I nodded.

 

I could understand how she might feel, being insulted by a man whose wealth and beauty made him known to even a hag who had only limited dealings with humans. She had thought him interesting, perhaps worthy of a brand of admiration for his long flaxen hair and refined features. She may have respected that he was formidable wizard, only to be insulted by him simply because she was not beautiful at all.

 

I could understand this very, very well.

 

“I cursed him. I am sure he told you the conditions of the curse?”

 

I nodded again. “Never to see another magical being, no magical being will see him, as if he never existed?”

 

“In part. If you can see him, remember his name, you know then the second half of the curse.”

 

“That is why I am here,” I mumbled.

 

The hag folded her waxen hands on her pink clad lap and regarded me with muted interest.

 

“What is it you need to know, Miss Granger?”

 

Time for business.

 

“Why me?”

 

That was the foremost question in my mind, the most important.

 

The hag, as I feared, shrugged. “Fate? Karma? I did not have a specific person in mind that would be able to see him at all. I can see him, of course, but I would rather not…

 

Do not be mistake that I might have some grudge against you, Miss Granger.”

 

I sighed. “You would not have a clue as to my past association with Mr. Malfoy,” I said in a whisper.

 

“No. I only know you from rumour, the War… To be honest, I have little interest in those sorts of things…”

 

“The condition of breaking the curse…” I continued. “He has to make me fall in love with him and then have sex with me?”

 

The hag shook her head, her lank, long black hair shifting around her strange face. “It must be mutual…like falling in love for the first time. So filled with anticipation and anxiety, it has to be real.”

 

“Bloody unlikely.”

 

The hag laughed. “Too good of a curse then?”

 

I was the one who shrugged this time. “It is taking its toll, but now that I have been involved…”

 

“The curse cannot be lifted,” the hag stated quickly and firmly. “Once a curse wrought by my kind has been cast, it must run its course.”

 

I frowned. “No counteraction with another curse?”

 

“None.”

 

Damn.

 

“And if I don’t…” I trailed, pausing to consider my words. “If I don’t actively try to break the curse?”

 

The hag smiled, “Knowing the Malfoy, he will hound you until he believes he can break the curse, or he will always be cut off from the magical world and be forced to live as a Muggle.”

 

I snorted. Lucius Malfoy living as a Muggle? He had not done a very good job of even dressing appropriately for a Muggle world.

 

“You could have him killed?” the hag suggested, a leer darkening her waxy features, reminding me that I was not speaking to a human witch.

 

“Not easily…” I sighed.

 

The hag laughed, but it was a different sort of laugh than before. It was the sort of laugh a woman reserved for more private moments, a laugh between female friends…

 

Odd.

 

“Only you and I would know, that’s the best part,” the hag cackled, slapping her knee and rocking in her armchair.

 

I thought it a bad idea to laugh along with the hag, but a part of me was.

 

“Then, if I want him out of my hair, without killing him…”

 

“Fall in love with him,” the hag laughed. “Maybe you’d do him some good. By the looks of you, you are not a witch who cares much for the pompous attitudes and arrogance of a man like Lucius Malfoy.”

 

That much was true. But how in the world would I ever make myself fall in love with someone so reprehensible?

 

“Love potion?” I asked, hopeful.

 

The hag, whose laughter finally faded, shook her head sadly. It seemed as though she would not have wished my situation on anyone like me. There is so much about hags I would never understand, including the mechanism of their magic.

 

“Falling in love is not a life sentence, Miss Granger.”

 

I felt an eyebrow arch.

 

“The passion, the anticipation, is as fleeting as fart in strong wind.”

 

Interesting analogy, one I would have to remember.

 

“Fall in love, fuck, and the curse is broken. Sounds simple, but in your individual situation…” the hag trailed, folding her hands again over her knees. “I apologize, and as far as me saying that, I hope you’ll believe me.”

 

What a strangely polite and considerate hag! I think my worldview skewed slightly.

 

I inhaled, and for once, the air seemed fresher, cleaner. I did not cough.

 

“Is there nothing you can do? You cannot switch or transfer…?”

 

The hag, again, shook her head. “The Fates have made their choice, and you _do_ seem like a nice young witch.”

 

Nice, as in a hag’s standards?

 

“To fall in love with such a man…” the hag began. “Well, let’s just hope five years has given him enough time to think upon his bad character.”

 

“Not long enough…” I muttered and began to rise.

 

“You’ll not mention me cursing Purebloods to the Ministry, will you?”

 

I was already moving to the door when Edwinia Glump appeared behind me, catching my sleeve.

 

“What is there to mention?” I asked with a weak smile. “Lucius Malfoy does not exist, does he?”

 

Edwinia Glump, the strangest hag I ever met, twittered a private sort of laugh and wished me luck.

 

I would need it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

As luck would have it, Lucius Malfoy was standing just outside the door of my Islington flat.

 

“How did you get in the building?” I asked angrily as I approached.

 

He said nothing, and in the light from the wall sconces in the corridor, his grey eyes flashed to study me. Lucius had been standing on the doormat, staring dumbly at my door when I found him, and at my words turned only slightly as if to look at a startling shadow darting across the wall.

 

Lucius was no longer wearing the clothes he had in Trento, and I supposed he had put the money I gave him to better use. He was clean, to begin, and he wore Muggle clothes. A long wool coat much like my own, but black and cut for a man resting over an outfit of black trousers and a dark grey jumper with a thick ‘fisherman’s’ knit. Lucius could almost pass as ‘normal’ if it were not for his long pale hair, loosely braided and falling over his shoulder.

 

“I ran out of Muggle money,” he responded finally. “Can I come in?”

 

“How did you find my flat?” I demanded, already digging into my coat pocket for my wand to unlock and dispel the wards on the door.

 

A pale brow arched as if to say ‘how do you think?’

 

Tracking spell.

 

I moved past him, brushing my shoulder against his chest, and opened the door.

 

“And no, you may not come in.”

 

I slammed the door in his face.

 

“I come proposing a deal,” I heard him growl through the door as I pressed my back to it.

 

I was angry, and not just because Lucius Malfoy was standing on my doorstep. Edwinia Glump’s words had made me angry, not because of anything she had done, not really, but what Lucius had done to warrant the curse affecting both our lives. Of course, the affect on the man on the other side of the door had been more severe, but the idea that he would continue to seek me out because I was the only witch he could see? I did not want to be burdened with him.

 

Why couldn’t he live like a Muggle and get on with his life?

 

Because the life of a wizard was all he had ever known…cannot teach an old dog new tricks?

 

I groaned even as Crooks rubbed against my booted ankles.

 

Lucius had been leaning toward the door, his hands on either jamb, when I opened the door and glared at him.

 

I moved to let him inside.

 

I doffed my coat and slipped out of my boots, and proceeded to switch on lights in the darkened apartment just as Lucius glanced about, surely noting the layout was similar to that of my flat in Trento. He even sat on the ottoman I had in the living area, a dark blue upholstered and narrower piece of furniture, avoiding sitting on a folded copy of the Daily Prophet from the day before.

 

Moving to the kitchen, I fed Crooks a saucer of cream and began making coffee. I never drank coffee after midday, but I had a feeling that I would need a ‘pick me up’ with Lucius Malfoy’s proposal waiting to be heard.

 

“Before the curse came into effect, I did something quite clever,” he began, grasping his hands before him, his elbows on his knees. I could feel his eyes watch me moving in the kitchen. “Before I went to the pub in Knockturn Alley, I had been to Gringotts,” he explained and I simply glanced at him, waiting for the modern coffeemaker to begin perking.

 

“You said…” I began, suspiciously.

 

Lucius shook his head, his eyes moving to Crookshanks who had leapt into the armchair nearby, watching the pale man with interest. I suppose Crooks was deciding whether Lucius was friend or foe, as he did with most people. I trusted my familiar’s supernatural intuition, however…

 

“I had the key to my vault, and I hid it under a stone near the gates of the Manor. If it were taken by robbers, I would have no means to do much of anything…” he mused, still staring at Crookshanks. “Of course, not being able to see another witch or wizard guaranteed nothing... Yet, I held to hope that I would find the one who would help break the curse. Now I have.”

 

Our eyes met, and I stiffened.

 

His hands moved to his coat pockets and he pulled a small brass key, tied to a leather string, and held it out for me to see.

 

“The deal is this: you enter my vaults, take a sum that suits you, withdraw the rest, and I will disappear from your sight.”

 

I blinked at him, and then heard the coffeemaker click off. I turned away quickly and busied myself with pouring two mugs of coffee and setting out cream and sugar on the kitchen counter.

 

The soft clink of brass on the counter startled me, and there Lucius Malfoy stood on the other side of the counter, his face so pale, his eyes pleading.

 

“The goblins will recognize the key no matter who holds it, and as you would be the one holding it, surely they would believe the vault it yours…”

 

I shook my head, my brows furrowing, after placing a black mug before Lucius. “But…”

 

“I do not exist, and this vault has my name and my name alone on it. In five years, I have learned that not only am I invisible to magical beings, they cannot see me, my name… My name is invisible. I tried…”

 

He sank down onto a stool and pulled the mug towards him, cupping the warmth between his hands.

 

“I wrote to the Daily Prophet two years ago, as a sort of experiment. I wrote to place an advertisement, seeking the one who would break the curse. It was more like a wanted advertisement for an executive assistant. I did not sign my name to it, but gave a return address.

 

A reply came, asking for my name and informing me of the fee for the advertisement. I did not think a reply would come. I cannot even remember whom the reply was from, but I remembered it was someone who worked in the paper’s offices.

 

So, I continued the experiment. I sent two replies. The first was with my name written at the bottom and a few sickles for the fee. I waited, and three days later, another note came, this time asking if I was still interested in placing the advertisement.

 

No letter with my name was received, I found in later correspondences.

 

I tried sending letters to Narcissa and Draco, not signing my name, but giving a return address. I only ever received one reply, and that was from Narcissa. It was a short note, asking me not to write to her. She only had one husband, the man she married in Canada after our divorce. She had a son, but it was not any of my business, a stranger’s business, to pry into her private affairs.

 

The letters I sent with my name never received replies.”

 

I thought of the scrap of parchment I had found in his cloak with his name written over and over again.

 

“I searched through Prophet archives one day, knowing that there were witches and wizards all around me, but I could not see them. I never found mention of my imprisonment in Azkaban or mention of my marriage to Narcissa. Everything about me, that was me, was gone…”

 

I shifted on my bare feet and remembered my coffee.

 

In truth, I had not particularly imagined what it must be like to suddenly not exist to the world that shaped you. I had thought, though, about what it must be like to see Diagon Alley empty, but knowing, logically, it was full of people, family, friends, but you could not see them, touch them, or hear them…

 

It was a nightmare.

 

Lucius drank his coffee black, again, and I drank as well, sharing in his silence.

 

“Do you regret what you said to Edwinia Glump?”

 

His head snapped up. “Have you spoken to her?” he asked in a tense whisper.

 

I nodded. “Do you?”

 

He relaxed, a disgusted expression crossing his face. “Of course I do.”

 

But has it changed you at all?

 

I did not ask.

 

The silence continued and Crookshanks curled up on the chair and went to sleep. I drank my coffee, standing in my kitchen considering.

 

Even if I could access Lucius’ vault, what would I want with his money if there was anything at all left inside? I did not want money. I wanted peace of mind. However, if getting into that vault to get Lucius his money made him ‘disappear,’ what did I have to lose?

 

I set my mug down next to the sink and stretched my fingers out to slide the key and the leather string across the counter toward me. Lucius watched over the rim of his own mug.

 

The key was ancient, and as I touched it, I could feel the hum of magic embedded in the brass.

 

“What is the whole deal?” I asked, holding the key before my eyes, but looking past it to the pale man.

 

He grinned into his coffee.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The deal was this: Lucius would follow me into Gringotts, holding to my sleeve, and possibly see the goblins for himself. Once in the vault, he would take what he needed, I would take what I wanted and arrange for the rest to be transferred to another bank account, a Muggle bank account at Lloyds TSB.   From there, he would personally transfer the funds to another bank in America, though I did not want to know why. After assisting Lucius in understanding the Muggle banking system, I would no longer be involved. No contact and no unexpected collisions in alleys or appearances on doorsteps…

 

Simple.

 

If only.

 

If only I knew the true power of a hag’s curse, I would have known that there is no skirting around the conditions of the curse.

 

If only falling in love were simple and uncomplicated.


	4. IV

**IV**

 

 

 

 

“Why can’t I see anyone?”

 

Lucius Malfoy whinged like a child. I had a nagging suspicion that his ex-wife knew very well how a whinging Lucius Malfoy sounded.

 

Was this really the same man who had gotten into scuffles with Arthur Weasley? The same man who hosted Voldemort in his home at some point? The same man who tried to kill Harry in Second Year after freeing Dobby?

 

Apparently not.

 

He held to my sleeve like a lost oversized child as I wended my way through Diagon Alley the next day. I had, begrudgingly; taken a personal day from work just so I could, once and for all, try to ease my mind.

 

“Who do you see, Granger?” he asked, pushing against me so my arm was pinned to his chest, my hand, uncomfortably brushing against his thigh as we walked. In the chill of the winter’s day, he was very warm against me, towering over me, lording over me, and demanding me to start talking. Of course, I did not say a word, people would think I was talking to myself, I supposed rationally.

 

“Granger!” he snarled, gripping my arm and forcing me to stop mid step just before Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes. A few passersby eyed me suspiciously, as I supposed, to them, I had suddenly been frozen in place by a spell.

 

“Control yourself,” I growled between tight lips, daring not to look back at the man. “I can just as easily forget to our agreement…”

 

His grip loosened and I was allowed to step forward naturally.

 

“If I could have avoided debasing myself, I would have, Granger. As it is, I need you,” he whispered frantically as I wove between a group of witches moving as a unit down the Alley, making it difficult to pass.

 

Interestingly, as I passed, Lucius still holding to my arm, he bumped into one witch and nearly knocked her off her feet. He did not seem to sense the witch at all.

 

A rude comment found my ears, but I did not turn.

 

The whole ordeal made me think of Harry under his Invisibility Cloak.

 

As we neared the crooked and high façade of Gringotts Wizarding Bank, I became nervous. Ever since breaking into the Lestrange vault, the goblins were especially surly the few times I had been in the bank since. Using a key that was not mine to a enter another vault that was not mine…

 

Hags and goblins were not creatures you wanted as enemies.

 

“Remember what I said. Present the key. The goblin will know it, it is a goblin made key. They might prompt for a password. Pavo cristatus…pavo cristatus…”

 

I wanted to hex him. His urgent whispering in my ear was only heightening my nervousness. I wanted to shove his beloved white pavo cristatus up his…

 

“Key?” the goblin grumbled.

 

I had run out of time to steel my resolve and my hand shook when I drew the brass key from my coat. However, while the goblin was inspecting the key, I glanced back to Lucius whose eyes were narrowed and blinking.

 

“Eerie,” he breathed, and I knew that he could not see the army of goblins swarming in the main hall of the bank. In fact, I wondered what he saw when the goblin cleared his throat in a harsh rasp to catch my attention again.

 

“Password?”

 

I enunciated the Latin name of the Indian Peacock and sighed as the goblin nodded.

 

“Follow me.”

 

After so many years, I have developed a resistance to motion sickness, whether it be flying or the whirling carts that rattled into the bowels of the earth beneath Gringotts. Lucius seemed enjoy the harrowing trip to vault number 776. I had only glanced how his loosely braided hair flew out behind him, strands coming loose and flying about his pale face like whipping silvery snakes.

 

Lucius looked almost wild during the trip, and I wondered if there was some Norse blood in his stock. He looked almost like a Viking crying ‘Odin’ over the rough waves of the North Sea on his way to pillage the British coast. All he needed was a thick blond beard…

 

“I think I can see something,” he said, not caring that his voice echoed in the torch lit subterranean realm of the bank. The goblin did not hear him as he moved to insert the key into a keyhole of a large brass door, featureless, that matched the key. “Its like a dark, ugly blur,” he continued.

 

I ignored him as the locks and bolts in the brass door clicked before me, sounding like the striking of small gongs through the darkness.

 

The door glided open and the goblin stepped out of the way.

 

“Withdraw of all funds?” he grumbled.

 

I had told the goblin before mounting the cart exactly what I wanted to do. I had specified the Muggle banking establishment, to which I would go next to open an account so the funds could be transferred. Every major bank in Greater London had a magical liaison that was in contact with Gringotts, and that morning, before leaving the flat, I had called ahead to the nearest branch of Lloyds TSB to set up an appointment with a certain Emily Harris, a Squib.

 

I nodded to the goblin, before stepping into the vault, Lucius grasping my wrist again, stepping in behind me. At my entrance, a torch lit automatically, and I found myself blinded by the glitter of gold galleons haphazardly thrown, it seemed, into the ten by ten foot vault.

 

“This was my private account, separate from Narcissa’s or Draco’s trust. I opened it when I was fifteen, and every month, I set aside what I could…” he mused, releasing my wrist to bend down and grasp a handful of galleons.

 

I watched him, as he seemed to glare at the money. It made me wonder exactly how much money was in the vault. Had he used the vault as his brand of piggy bank? Apparently so.

 

He began stuffing galleons into his pockets, but not so many as to load down the wool coat.

 

Lucius had mentioned stealing before, and I wondered why having hard magical currency mattered when he was going to have every thing converted and transferred to Muggle currency.

 

“Take a handful,” he snapped at me while I had been standing dumbly, watching him.

 

I took approximately five hundred galleons, and it did not seem to make a dent in the pile in the vault.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Lloyds TSB branch in Islington was not far from Angel Station or my flat, and as had been appointed, Lucius and I met with Emily Harris promptly at eleven o’clock.

 

Seeing Lucius in a Muggle setting, in Muggle London, was definitely a sight that gave me pause. What was more astonishing to me was that Emily Harris, a cheery woman of about thirty-five, did not know Lucius Malfoy. Of course, she was a Squib who lived and worked in the Muggle world, and _could_ see Lucius, and vice versa, but I wondered how far Edwinia Glump’s curse went. Then again, Emily Harris could simply not care a whit about the goings on of the Wizarding world.

 

Emily Harris shook Lucius’ hand, causing him to bare his teeth in an uncomfortable smile.

 

I did most of the talking as Emily asked questions about the new account, and for information, Lucius could not provide any, as he was, technically, a non-person. He had no records of his existence in the Muggle world, and none in the magical world.

 

I would have to open the account in my name with my credentials.

 

Why I had not thought of this previously, I honestly could not say. Perhaps it was the anticipation of ridding myself of the thought of Lucius Malfoy that made me overlook this important detail.

 

Approximately an hour and fifteen minutes later, I was sitting on a bench in the shopping centre next to the branch bank, my head between my knees, trying to breathe. I had opted for fashionable denims that day, else I would be peering up my thighs to my knickers.

 

It did not help ease my nerves that Lucius paced maniacally on the pavement before me, muttering to himself.

 

Why in the nine rings of hell did I think dealing with Lucius Malfoy’s finances would be easy?

 

I was the primary signatory on his account, already in the process of being translated and transferred into American currency. I would have to help him further to set up some sort of proof that he _did_ exist so he could access his money in America. I would have to ‘school’ him in the ways of the Muggle world.

 

Did they not have Muggle Studies at Hogwarts when he was a student?

 

Damn. Damn…

 

“If you have finished with your hysterics, Granger, we need to arrange a Portkey to Missoula, Montana.”

 

I felt vomit rise up into my mouth, but I swallowed quickly, lifting my face, then the rest of my upper body, to stare at the pale man who stood arms akimbo, feet planted widely apart, before me. He reminded me of an impatient child.

 

“M-Missoula, Montana?” I stuttered.

 

“That is where my money is going.”

 

Missoula, Montana? Had I missed a crucial bit of information?

 

I swallowed again, feeling the acidic bile begin to return to my stomach.

 

What Lucius Malfoy failed to realize was that if he intended to live as a Muggle, he would need the proper documentation, especially in the States. He would have to supply a birth certificate, a passport, apply for a visa, and then apply for citizenship if he intended to spend the rest of his life in the United States. All of this would take time.

 

Granted, he was a wizard, and other magical folk, particularly magical law enforcement, would not even be aware of him, but Muggle law enforcement… Lucius had himself mentioned that his magical ability was not quite what it should be when trying to use spells against Muggles.

 

Not only had I just opened a large money account, but also I would now have to arrange a Portkey to Missoula, Montana, and somehow figure a way to escape Lucius Malfoy and the quagmire that was his life.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Portkey I obtained via the Ministry cost me two hundred galleons. Then, factoring in the time change, I did not schedule another sick day from work. As far as I was concerned by the time I stood with Lucius Malfoy in an alley off the Strand, holding a battered umbrella, I would leave him in Missoula, Montana, as soon as I was able to procure the proper forms so he could manage his money on his own, and have time to change before work.

 

I assumed Lucius knew where we would be going once we reached Missoula, Montana, and I glared at him as he grasped the Portkey, his large pale hand near mine on the curved handle of the black umbrella.

 

“How long?” he snapped, still irritated from my display of panic outside of the branch bank in Islington, not to mention the hour and half wait as I had left him outside the Visitor’s Entrance to the Ministry.

 

“A minute,” I grumbled.

 

Merlin, I wanted to go home, I was feeling sick after all.

 

When the Portkey activated, my body collided into Lucius’ larger form. Surprisingly, his free arm wrapped about my waist to hold me near as the sensation of the hook behind the navel made me gasp.

 

International Portkey travel is one of the most unpleasant things. I had Apparated with several stops from Trento, returning home after about an hour, but Apparating from the Continent back to Britain was not difficult or particularly draining. I would learn later that the distance in miles between London and Missoula, Montana was over four thousand, five hundred miles.

 

The trip seemed to last forever, and between the magical pull of the Portkey and Lucius’ firm hold on my waist, I felt as if I were being squeezed through an eye of a needle.

 

Then, the whirling light stopped, and my boots slammed into ground, sending me rolling over snow, Lucius Malfoy rolling with me.

 

When we came to a stop, he was atop me, his gasping breath coming out as visible steam in my face. His braided hair was nearly undone after another fast flying motion through air and space.

 

We stared at each other for an eternity, gasping, and shivering.

 

It was snowing in Missoula, Montana, and there was at least another six inches of snow under my back. Neither of us could move fast enough to move our bodies apart. Lucius Malfoy, hips slotted between my thighs, his arms about me, would have appeared to be an amorous pale Lothario from an outside perspective. As for me, I would have looked like a victim of a sexual assault as I had had my palms pressing against his chest with an expression of abject horror on my face.

 

Finally, on my feet, I began to look around, seeing my breath before my face, and snow covered hills all around. In the distance, grey snow capped mountains framed the shallow river valley that held the small American city of Missoula, Montana.

 

We stood on a high hill overlooking the small city, snow pouring down in a dawn cloud lit sky. The wind whipped around us, penetrating our wool coats, slapping our bare cheeks, and sending our hair into the air.

 

“I hope you know where you are going,” I said through chattering teeth, drawing my wand to begin casting Charms to warm my coat and shield my face from the wind.

 

Lucius scowled, his arms moving to hug himself.

 

He began walking through the snow, muttering to himself, as seemed to be habit when he was perturbed, and I followed, forgetting the battered umbrella stuck in the snow on the peak of the hill.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Sterling Savings Bank in Missoula reminded me of banks you saw in old movies about Bonnie and Clyde. My father loves old American movies, thus I stared at the façade of the bank building with a sense of hesitation.

 

Missoula was, to my surprise, a nice little city in the middle of nowhere. I suppose the same could be said of my beloved Trento, but Missoula had a totally different ambience. It was America, first of all, and I always felt odd in America the few times I had visited. There was a type of artificiality about my concept of ‘America.’ It is hard to explain, really, but I could never feel at ease.

 

Then again, I had only ever been to New York City, Salem, Massachusetts, and Charleston, South Carolina. Missoula did not feel like those places.

 

There was a strange magic under my feet, deep in the frozen ground. There was a wildness about the magic I felt, which made my body hum faintly. Montana was ‘Big Sky Country,’ a place where people like me would naturally feel ill at ease.

 

But getting back to it...

 

Missoula’s streets and sidewalks had been cleaned of snow, and there was a snow treatment on the paved road. Lucius stood just before me on the sidewalk, studying the façade of the bank where his money was being transferred, and then, he held my hand and pulled me across the street.

 

We were to confirm the transfer of his money first, and then go about getting him situated in the Muggle world. Simple.

 

Yet, there would never be anything simple about Lucius Malfoy.

 

His hand was cold, but large, enveloping mine like an adult’s would envelope a child’s hand, and I realized again, that Lucius was old enough to be my father though he never could look it, and I would never consider him such…

 

We entered the bank, which had few customers, and studied the dated décor of the lobby.

 

It was a bank like most banks you would find—teller’s counter, a vault, small offices to meet with bankers to set up accounts or manage your money market accounts, etc. There were surveillance cameras in the high corners with red blinking lights to inform the customers that the safety of their money was important to the bank establishment. There was even a security guard in a rented uniform and revolver in a fancy patent leather holster standing near the doors. In this case, the guard was a gawky man of about sixty whose pale blue eyes watched Lucius and I move toward the teller’s counter with sheer boredom.

 

Though there were plenty of customers, only one teller’s window was open. Glancing to the clock over the counter, I realized that bank had probably just opened for the day. I was completely disoriented by the time change, and I could not remember what time it was when the Portkey activated in London. This fact disturbed me on some level; it was unlike me to lose all concept of time. International Portkey travel had skewed my internal bearings absolutely.

 

Did I mention my hesitation before entering the bank?

 

As we waited in line behind two other customers, my hesitation transformed into foreboding.

 

Now, I am not in any way in touch with my ‘inner eye’ as Sibyl Trelawney would call it, but at that moment, Lucius still holding my hand, standing in line, a part of my brain trying to decide what to say to the young woman teller with a name badge reading ‘Cindy,’ something deep and primal in my brain was telling me to run. If I had to pull Lucius along, it did not matter. Something in me told me to ‘get the hell out.’

 

As if on cue, the doors to the bank slammed open, bringing with it an icy gust of wind from outside and five men in black ski masks rushed into the lobby.

 

There was a blast of what I realized later, with Lucius’ hand pushing my face into the dark green carpet on the floor of the lobby, was a sawed off shot gun. It was just like something out of the movies, and I ground my teeth together as the ‘robbers’ said and did everything like the actors in the movies.

 

Get on the fucking ground… Don’t look at me… Fill the bag…

 

Clichéd, really.

 

However, I forgot about clichés when sirens sounded outside the bank, and in what seemed like only seconds I was grabbed by the hair and wrenched to my feet.

 

What the robbers said is unimportant, what was important was that I, Hermione Granger, war hero, brightest witch of her age, was suddenly a hostage to a band of Muggle bank robbers.

 

Why me? Why did I have to be the one whose hair was being tangled around a gloved hand and torn from the roots? Why did the man, who seemed to be the leader of the band, want to use me as their bargaining chip for safe passage out of the bank?

 

Didn’t these idiots watch movies? It never ends well when hostages are involved. There would be some hostage negotiator and a sniper on a rooftop waiting to kill or incapacitate the man who had the hostage. In the end, there might be bloodshed, and there might be casualties, and I, who had seen these films, knew it never ended well for the ‘bad guys.’

 

I did not scream, I did not beg, as the ‘boss’ dragged me about the lobby, peering out the windows to the bright flashing red and blue lights.

 

I was livid.

 

Customers were sniffling, some praying as one of the robbers got rough with one of the bankers who had opened the grating before the vault, another clubbing the security guard on the back of the head and taking his gun. The robbers were cursing, beginning to panic as more and more police surrounded the building.

 

“If they come in, I’ll shoot this bitch!” the boss shouted, perhaps thinking his confidence would bolster his comrades’ resolve. The statement only made the others nervous. “I’ll shoot this pretty bitch, and then they’ll know!”

 

Know what? I wanted to roll my eyes, but I was staring down at Lucius who was on the floor, gazing up at me, laughing silently.

 

Laughing! Of all the nerve!

 

The robbers were too agitated to seem to notice much beyond filling what looked to be pillowcases with bundles of American currency or peering toward the windows through the holes in their ski masks. They did not seem to interested in the tall, pale man in the long wool coat whose large hand inched toward the inside pocket of that coat.

 

I wanted to smile at him, but reminded myself that I did not like him very much.

 

Lucius Malfoy, in theory, would not exist to the MACUSA, the Magical Congress of the United States of America. If he were to use magic in the presence of Muggles, or No-Majs as we were in America, he would not be noticed. The only catch, however, was that _I_ would be noticed. I still existed.

 

Of course, by the time the American Aurors, arrived, Lucius and I, hopefully, would be long gone—without a trace.

 

“Goddamn pigs!” the boss roared as a bullhorn sounded from outside the bank, and voice, muffled, sounded to have the robbers not harm any hostages.

 

Again, I wanted to roll my eyes. This robbery was possibly lifted directly from some Hollywood film.

 

I was yanked toward one of the windows again, wincing as I felt more of my hair pull from my scalp. Glancing toward Lucius again, I saw he had his wand, and was shifting to push himself up off the floor.

 

Then, he winked at me, and I slammed my eyelids shut over my eyes.

 

The screaming was deafening, and I could see light flash through my eyelids and smell the ozone of curses. What truly did deafen me was the sound of a gun firing very close to my right ear as the ‘boss’ hugged me against his body, using me as a human shield. The shot had me frozen except for my eyes, which opened in a panic of my own.

 

Did Lucius Malfoy know what a bullet could do to a living body? Was he so ignorant of Muggle culture?

 

Why the hell was I so worried that he might be shot or killed?

 

Of course, he was perfectly fine. He had either killed or Stunned the other four robbers, and the customers were crawling behind the teller’s counter, dragging the unconscious and disarmed body of the security guard with them, crying out their prayers to their Christian god.

 

The ‘boss’ was pressed back into a wall between two windows, his right arm out to hold a gun. I was never schooled on guns, but I knew the difference between a revolver and other guns. The ‘boss’ had an ‘other’ gun.

 

The ‘boss’ was only slightly taller than me, and thick set. He smelled strange, like chemicals, and I wondered then if he were under the influence of some sort of drugs.

 

However, my attention was on Lucius Malfoy, who stood in the middle of the lobby like some strange hero. I could still feel magic in the air, feeling it almost crackle over the skin on my face. His hair was a veritable nest of flaxen gold, and again, I thought: Viking crying ‘Odin!’ before going in for the kill to sacrifice a life to the All Father.

 

Lucius never looked like this in his Death Eater garb, trying to kill me or my friends in the various skirmishes during the War…

 

Lucius’ eyes were like silver pools, anger gleaming from the orbs. His face _was_ familiar, for I had seen such a vengeful snarl in my youth, deep in the bowels of the Ministry of Magic. To see that face again was frightening.

 

His wand was pointed toward me, his body poised to strike, a dueling stance. With his long black coat and his dark clothing underneath, he was very much like a shadow of the Death Eater he once was.

 

I had an ‘ah ha’ moment, but it lasted only a second.

 

“What the fuck are you?” the ‘boss’ screamed, his voice cracking with fear and horror.

 

The question made the corners of Lucius’ mouth twitch until he grinned malevolently.

 

“Why, I am the Devil, young man.”

 

Lucifer was a beautiful creature, wasn’t he?

 

Then several things happened at once, which made my mind seem to tilt off axis, and I would not be able to sort out the order of events until hours later.

 

First, Lucius cast, and second, I was flying across the lobby, my boots giving some resistance against the carpet under my feet. Third, Lucius caught me in an arm and pressed me to him, fourth, the violence of my sudden movement startled the ‘boss’ and he squeezed the trigger of his gun. Lastly, and simultaneously, Lucius’ wand emitted a sickly green bolt of a silent curse toward the ‘boss’ and the bullet from the gun struck me, sending myself and Lucius flying back into the floor.

 

This order of events meant nothing as Lucius grunted and shifted under me to look down at the blood on his sweater and coat. I was staring up into his face, and I was certain that I looked mortified.

 

“Fuck me…” he whispered, somehow impressed, and as the sound of breaking glass filled my ears, it was gone, and the world compressed me into Lucius’ chest, and the bank and the idiot robbers, dead or alive, was gone.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I was aware of everything around me, though I wished I had fainted.

 

On the other side of Apparation, I found myself in a dark room with a small window with a view of snow-covered pines. It was a closet of some sort, but I did not have time or the fortitude to ponder why I was in a closet with Lucius Malfoy hugging me close. In what seemed like a flash, I was out of the closet, in Lucius Malfoy’s arms, as he ran to carry me up stairs into another dark room.

 

Kicking a door open, I was in another room, this time with larger windows, and more snow-covered pines.

 

“Wha-what is this place?”

 

Lucius glanced down at me, apparently surprised that I was still conscious, but said nothing as he placed me on a dusty, cold bed.

 

He worked quickly, pushing open my coat and peeling back the wool from my left shoulder. I tried to see what he was looking at, but he smacked my forehead and snarled.

 

I had half a mind to yell at him, but the pain hit me like a Bludger to the chest.

 

Using well-placed Charms, my coat was removed and resting beside me on the bed, which was wide enough for two to sleep comfortably. I made a noise at the movement of wool against my body, but kept my lips shut tight.

 

Lucius slipped his wand between his teeth, and using both hands, ripped at my jumper, a cream coloured jumper my mum had sent me the Christmas before. I liked the jumper; I could wear it over casual denims and still look nice…

 

Slipping the torn sleeve from my left arm, I could see in the dim light coming through the windows that the knit was stained red with blood.

 

The pain, which I had just become aware of, spread from my left shoulder blade to my shoulder, to my chest. The pain alternated between a dull throb to a piercing stab. I wanted to scream, but did not, instead, I tried to look down at my shoulder again, only to have Lucius smack my forehead harder and begin muttering after dropping his wand from his teeth deftly into his bloody hand.

 

As he muttered, I realized he was speaking to me.

 

“Maybe twelve years ago, just after I was released from Azkaban, Rudy Lestrange and I were ordered to burn down the home of a Mudblood family in Shropshire. A simple thing, really…burn the house down, bar the exits, kill the family inside…

 

If, on the off chance, someone got out, we would kill them. Well, it seemed a simple assignment, one that would put us on better terms with the Dark Lord… We did not count on one thing, however…”

 

He paused, and I blinked. I was horrified at his words, but the pain was pushed aside in lieu of me listening. I could feel his hands moving over my shoulder, but when he pushed me onto my right side, I finally screamed.

 

I could feel my blood under me, hot and sticky. I could feel something tearing in my shoulder, and bone, shattered bone, slicing into the muscles of my back. Then I felt magic on my skin, and Lucius continued, using one hand to hold me on my side, the other to weave a spell.

 

“The Mudbloods had guns. We were at the back door, casting the last Charm to seal the door, when a Mudblood used a gun to shoot Rudy in the chest through the closed door. It was a shotgun, I learned later, and though someone told me that guns are heavily restricted, this Mudblood shot Rudy in the chest.

 

It did not kill him, of course, but it wounded him badly so that I had to be the one to set fire to the house and try to heal him while making sure none of the Mudbloods escaped.

 

Rudy was moaning all the while, telling me to kill the bastard who had used such magic against him. I was too frantic to get him stable to answer him, to tell him it was a Muggle gun and not magic.

 

To sum up, the Mudbloods burnt to death, and I took Rudy to the Dark Lord. I had saved Rudy’s life, but I was stunned. I was only vaguely aware of guns before then, but afterward, I took an interest in learning all I could about Muggle guns.”

 

A cooling sensation passed through me, and the slicing of bone shard into muscle disappeared, bone mending.

 

“You were shot with a Beretta 92, 45 millimeter semi-automatic pistol at a range of about twenty-five feet.”

 

The only thought: I had? How utterly interesting and totally irrelevant.

 

“The bullet passed through your shoulder…”

 

And where did it go from there? This thought troubled me as Lucius let me roll naturally onto my back.

 

He had been kneeling by the bed all this time, and when he rose, he winced.

 

I still felt pain but it was a shadow of what it had been. Finally, I glanced down at my shoulder, expecting to see a gaping bullet wound, but found only a bloody patch of skin. Lucius Malfoy had healed me.

 

“There now,” he whispered, drawing my attention.

 

As I began to sit up, he collapsed on my legs on the bed, and more blood was staining the dusty duvet.

 

He had taken the bullet that had passed through me, and he had known it all along.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I was adding so many mysteries to my mental list lately, and I tried to understand as I ripped off Lucius Malfoy’s clothing to find his wound, why he would save me beyond the obvious reasons. He needed me to procure his money, of course, but it was more than that.

 

I had no idea where I was, but I knew I was in a cold and disused house. I was straddling Lucius’ hips, my wand lighting to look quickly around the room for something I could use as light. It was day outside, but the clouds were so thick with snow that it was not light enough.

 

I spotted a hurricane lamp on the mantel of an empty fireplace, and cast the proper spells to light it and the fireplace with enchanted blue fire. When I had enough light to see, I searched Lucius’ body for the source of the blood oozing onto the bed under his body.

 

He was unconscious; his lips parted slightly, his breathing shallow. Between the physical exertion of getting me out of the Sterling Savings Bank in Missoula, carrying me into this room, and healing me, he had exhausted himself, and was gradually losing blood.

 

I could not be sure how life threatening my wound had been, but it was foolish to not mention where the bullet had gone.

 

I found the wound in his right side. A few inches to the left and the bullet would have lodged in a lung or his liver, an inch to the right, and he would only have a graze mark. As it was, the bullet was in a shallow wound in the flesh part of his side, embedded in a layer of thick muscle. No organs were damaged, but he was bleeding badly.

 

During and after the War, I made it priority to learn all I could about combat medicine, but I had no training with gunshot wounds. Reversing hexes, yes, but not extracting pieces of metal, projectiles, exactly…

 

I sighed. I, too, had lost quite a bit of blood between being shot and Lucius healing me, but I had to do something before the pale man grew any paler.

 

I began, hoping upon hope, that I would not inadvertently kill the man, though I had wished him dead on more than one occasion. Lucius had saved me and I owed him his life for now.

 

Again, I lost track of time for the second time that long day, but by the time true darkness fell outside, Lucius was healed and sleeping, compared to being strictly unconscious. As for me? It was my turn to collapse, which I did, next to him, laying across the dusty and bloody bed, my head resting on his left shoulder.

 

I hadn’t the energy to care about anything any longer, and I slept the sleep that comes when you have no more adrenaline or endorphins to push through your blood, a sleep that comes when your brain is overloaded and shuts down to save your soul from shattering.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I was roused by a kiss.


	5. V

V.

 

 

 

Before I went on holiday, I, hindsight, made a terrible error. As I said, this I figured out, in hindsight.

 

Being an Unspeakable, there is little I can divulge about what it is I actually do in the Department of Mysteries, but I can say this: the Department of Mysteries is, at least, one room, the home for some of the most dangerous magical devices created in the past millennia. Part of the fun of this room, which we, Unspeakables, fondly call the ‘junk cupboard,’ is that half the rubbish in the room is so old that no one knows what most of it is. This ignorance is fraught with danger, of course, and we take every precaution not to blink ourselves out of existence in touching a device that looks suspiciously like a Muggle electric toothbrush or something as benign as a shoehorn.

 

Two days before my holiday, I drew the short straw.

 

Every so often, we tidy up the ‘junk cupboard’ to make room for new acquisitions, and as it was, we had several large crates of mysterious confiscated magical devices cluttering up the Time Room. It was my turn to enter the ‘junk cupboard,’ taking precious time from my current project, of which I cannot speak about.

 

The cupboard was more like a warehouse; so long, that no one truly knew how large the ‘cupboard’ was or how far it ran underneath Greater London. Only the stupidly curious would venture far, sometimes returning, sometimes not. I was only planning on going within sight of the door, shifting things on the wooden racks that ran the length of the room, seven racks in all reaching so high that one would need to Levitate oneself to reach the top approximately three stories up.

 

To make a long and complicated story short, I found an interesting device on the twenty-third shelf up, about twenty feet from the door. I had Conjured a ladder, preferring to have my feet on something solid.

 

The only way to describe the device that I found is by trying, and most likely failing, to have one picture a ball, like a child’s toy ball, as large as a Quaffle. The ball is composed of several bands that can be twisted along one axis; differing from a Muggle Rubix Cube my father likes to play with between dental appointments.

 

The only reason I noticed it was that it was pretty.

 

Yes, Hermione Granger likes pretty and shiny things.

 

The seven tracks were jewel tinted in garnet, emerald, sapphire, topaz, diamond, amethyst, and onyx. Embossed in polished bronze were tiny markings, similar to cuneiform. There was no tag attached, as most objects had tags, usually marked with question marks and speculations as to what the object could be.

 

I touched it, and nothing happened. I fitted the ball into my palm, and nothing happened.

 

Never one to pass up a puzzle, or perhaps because I was so enchanted by the colourful surface, I, stupidly, twisted the emerald track so it clicked pleasantly. Maybe it was a puzzle box, I thought, only in spherical form. Leaning into the ladder, I turned the ball around and around, admiring the colours, studying the markings. The ball did not seem magical at all, there was no humming that I found with most magical items when I touched them—it seemed benign if not mysterious.

 

I suppose I handled the ball for about five minutes before remembering that I needed to shove things out of the way to make room for more things. It was as I was settling the ball on the rack again, making sure it would not roll off the edge and fall to the floor far below, that I noticed that it did indeed have a tag, half obscured by dust resting near to where I had lifted the ball from the rack.

 

‘Absolute luck/Destiny device. Handle with caution. Creator/creation date unknown.’

 

Absolute luck/Destiny device?

 

The sound of one of my colleagues Levitating the crates into the room distracted me, and I, as I can do at times, did not think of the strange ball again. I was anticipating my holiday, and I was anxious to unload the crates and place the objects on the racks and go home to pack. I did not think of the Absolute luck/Destiny device again, not until I woke to the sensation of Lucius Malfoy kissing my mouth in a cold room in a cold house in some unknown location after being involved in an attempted bank robbery and being shot in Missoula, Montana four and half thousand miles away from home.

 

I thought about the ball, my mind’s thoughts still picking up my last waking thought about luck.

 

I had had quite a bit of bad luck lately.

 

Lucius was only slightly aware of whom he was kissing, and when I jabbed a thumb into his Adam’s apple, he jerked away roughly and nearly tumbled off the bed.

 

Said bed was dusty and bloody and my clothes were stiff with a combination of his blood and mine. At some point during my sleep, I had pulled my ruined coat over me, and was warm enough under it to be annoyed that Lucius Malfoy had opened the cocoon of warmth in moving to kiss me.

 

We sat up on the bed simultaneously, the hurricane lamp nearly out of oil and the magical fire I had cast in the fireplace gone. It was still dark, but by the light, I decided it was just past dawn with snow clouds obscuring the sun. We stared at each other, blinking away sleep and confusion, and realizing how filthy and bloody we still were.

 

Though I could still feel his warm, dry lips on mine, I could not be angry. I was more hungry, more cold, more worried than angry.

 

“I thought you were…” he trailed, but shook his head to stop himself from saying more.

 

He thought I as Narcissa, I assumed.

 

I shivered and pulled my coat up from my lap to my chin. Lucius’ clothes were ruined from where I had ripped and pulled to find the wound in his side, and as he ran a hand absently along the patch of dried blood on his side, he sighed, and began laughing softly, sardonically.

 

I said nothing. I began searching for my wand, which I had relinquished at some point during sleep, and found it resting under my left thigh.

 

“Where are we?” I asked, my voice very dry, as I rose from the bed and cast a new bluish fire in the fireplace to give the room, a bedroom, more light.

 

Lucius had found his own wand and began repairing his clothing.

 

“Twenty miles north of Missoula,” he answered, but not answering what I really wanted to know.

 

Where was this house, and why had we come here?

 

The room was sparsely decorated, and what décor there was, it was coated in years, maybe decades, of dust and grime. The papered walls were peeling with a pattern of what should have been pink tea roses, and the wooden floor was uneven under my feet. The bed we had laid on was an ancient four-poster, missing its hangings, and a bureau, possibly walnut, with a grimy mirror attached to the top, rested near the door in which we had entered.

 

There was no electrical wiring, no outlets, and no lights. The window, which was a casement window, looked over pines near the house and to bare snow covered hills beyond and dark grey mountains beyond that. There was a terrible draft from the window and I could hear wind whipping above the room in the attic space.

 

“This house?” I half asked, moving closer to the small grate fire and the low burning hurricane lamp on a dusty mantle.

 

“Just a house,” he muttered, casting a Charm to cleanse away the blood from his skin and clothes.

 

It was, again, not the answer I was looking for.

 

I sighed and my stomach grumbled in consternation. The sound filled the room and gave Lucius pause.

 

I did not glance to him, sinking to the floor to see the damage to my own clothing in the light of the fire. I was missing a sleeve, the jumper ruined. Holes in my coat marked the entrance and exit of the bullet that wounded me, and I sighed again, beginning to Charm my own clothes, Summoning the torn sleeve from the floor beside the bed, Charming away the black, dried blood.

 

The sound of Lucius rising to his feet made the floorboards creak, but I did not look at him.

 

I suppose I was embarrassed about his kiss, not meant for me. I suppose I was in shock by the bank robbery and being shot.

 

I had never been shot before… Tortured via Cruciatus, suffered a near fatal Cutting Curse by Anton Dolohov, been Petrified, yes, yes, and yes, but never shot by a Muggle with a gun.

 

“I’m missing work,” I breathed, in a type of shock, the reality of my current situation settling into my brain.

 

Lucius snorted as he moved to the window, casting a spell to seal the gap around the window to stop the icy breeze blowing into the room.

 

His snort mocked me. As if to say ‘who cares about your stupid little Ministry job.’ I ground my teeth as I stared into the bluish fire.

 

I wanted to know where I was and how soon I could leave.

 

“Is this your house?” I asked, none too pleasantly.

 

“It was my father’s,” he answered just as he began pacing the floorboards.

 

The nervous habit did nothing to soothe my fraying nerves.

 

Lucius continued, however, his voice angry as he paced, making the uneven floor rattle under where I knelt by the fire.

 

“No enchantments, no wards, just a fucking Muggle house in the middle of fucking nowhere…”

 

I blinked. Lucius Malfoy’s father had a Muggle house in the middle of nowhere, Montana?

 

“No elves, no amenities, my father and his ridiculous notions of solitude…” he continued.

 

I sniffed, rubbing my face with my hand and then moving the hand to my rumbling stomach. I could not remember the last time I had eaten.

 

As Lucius had said, I could feel no magic in the house, nothing to tell me that this house, no matter what the state, had been owned or inhabited by anyone the least bit magical.

 

“Why Missoula?”

 

My question, the sound of my voice, seemed to startle Lucius and he stopped pacing. I could feel his eyes on my back, as I donned my repaired and cleaned coat.

 

“Location,” he answered calmly. “It is so far removed from anything magical, and there is this house, that is mine by right, and it not warded against me.”

 

I think I nodded, understanding a bit better. “You intend to live here then?”

 

He sighed, and his boots shuffled slightly to the fire, where he leaned against the mantle to warm his once wounded side.

 

“No,” he muttered. “I had intended to find the one to help break the curse so I could return to my life.”

 

No lack of sarcasm there.

 

“But I had a back up plan, as should anyone in this sort of situation. This is the back up plan,” he said, his hand moving as if to reveal the room as part of the house, his new home.

 

I read the ‘back up plan’ as this: if he could not find or have a chance at wooing the one who could break the curse, he would content himself, somehow with living outside the world that had nurtured him—alone.

 

It was all the makings of a good tragedy, and for a millisecond, I felt sorry for him. A millisecond, I say again.

 

“You still need your money,” I reminded him, but wanted to slap myself for speaking.

 

He nodded, crossing his arms before his chest and pressing his shoulder into the mantle. In the magical firelight, the features of his face were cast in harsh relief. Lucius Malfoy looked ancient and exhausted. He also appeared to be thinking.

 

“I will pay you…”

 

I blinked and turned my face up to him fully.

 

“If you would set the account up in a manner in which I could easily access the funds, that is. I would hire your for a reasonable sum to manage my Muggle finances…”

 

“I am not an accountant,” I muttered, pulling my knees up under my chin to hug my legs.

 

“No, but you know how the Muggle system works…”

 

I sniffed again. Was I really the only person who would have to do this? I was not indebted…no, I was indebted to him for saving my life, but I had also saved his. That made us even, in my opinion.

 

“No.”

 

“No?” he asked if I had somehow offended his honour by existing.

 

“I am going home.”

 

And I was on my feet, despite the weakness from hunger that was beginning to take its toll, and away from the fire before Lucius could blink. I would Disapparate on the spot. I could go anywhere in North America, I assumed, and I thought of the nearest ‘magical’ city, trying to remember basic geography. I could go to Chicago, Seattle, or Las Vegas and obtain a Portkey back to London, surely.

 

“You are going nowhere.”

 

Why in the world had I assumed just because Lucius Malfoy was vulnerable that he was not dangerous? Why had I turned my back on him?

 

I had taken perhaps five paces away from the fire, my wand drawn, picturing what I knew of Chicago in my head, when I was suddenly frozen in place, my wand slipping to the floor from my stiff fingers, unable to even blink.

 

I was not so tired and hungry that the anger that bubbled up began to make my face burn. It was the anger that let the enchantment that held me broke.

 

I should note that I do have a temper. Of course, if you were to ask Harry, Ron, or even Draco Malfoy, I have more that a ‘little’ temper. So, when I whirled to find Lucius Malfoy moving up behind me to do whatever evil thing he intended to do, I attacked.

 

During my schooldays, I had a sharp hand that would slap a ferret like Draco Malfoy senseless. I also had a vicious right jab that had a tendency to break noses. Considering my height and my overall size, I was underestimated very often. As an adult, and an Unspeakable who must endure hours of physical training comparable to that of an Auror, my physical defense was lethal.

 

It was obvious that Lucius Malfoy thought trading blows was too plebian for when my fist connected with his patrician face, he howled. More blood was shed, and as his hands flew to his nose, I took the opportunity to plunge my fist, a right uppercut, in his hard gut, forcing him to double over. As a finishing touch, I threw a left hook into the side of his head, which was just in reach, and he went flying. I had not even had to use the jujitsu.

 

I would say that at six feet four inches and approximately fifteen stone, the fact Lucius Malfoy flew across the room, colliding roughly with the bureau near the door, shattering the mirror, I had probably added a bit of pent up magical energy to attack.

 

Besides feeling rather satisfied with myself that Lucius Malfoy’s sharp nose was broken and he was lolling, dazed on the dusty floor with shards of mirror, I was ravenously hungry, and I had no American money.

 

Supposing I could find a bank, not the Sterling Savings Bank, that would exchange pounds for American dollars, I could tuck into a fatty American meal. Maybe a cheeseburger… I felt that my change purse was in a hidden pocket, shrunken, in my coat. I always carried some Muggle money; on the off chance, I would need it.

 

Lucius moaned on the floor, his eyes fluttering, his mouth stained from the slow ooze of blood from his nose.

 

I did not feel sorry for him in the least. He had dragged me all the way to America, and factoring in that my luck had turned bad ever since I collided into him in an alley in Trento, the best solution was to run.

 

Therefore, I ran, more like Disapparated, as soon as I plucked my wand from the floor.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I had not been focusing well when I Disapparated. Where I ended up, I attributed to my continued bad luck; of course, I only say this because it was not Chicago. In fact, I should have been grateful I did not end up in the middle of Lake Michigan.

 

Where I was took a bit of panicked searching, but I stood on a near empty street in a town near a large body of water.

 

Sister Bay, Wisconsin, I learned by looking at a storefront window. Picturing a map of the United States, I realized I had Apparated approximately fifteen hundred miles, give or take. I wondered, idly, if I had set a new record. This thought was immediately wiped from my mind as a gust of wind from Lake Michigan slammed into my body, penetrating my wool coat and blowing my disgustingly dusty and mussed hair back behind my skull.

 

I was beginning to hate winter.

 

With no Muggle money or American currency, I stood on an icy sidewalk on a generic street corner, wondering what to do. My stomach made me decide, and I acted.

 

Pawnshop, the neon sign said, and it had just opened for the day, it being just ten after eight in the morning according to the electric board on a bank down the street, which would not be open soon enough to make stomach stop devouring itself.

 

However, before I approached the pawnshop, I ducked into a smaller side street in an alee of a door and drew my wand from my pocket and a handful of gold galleons. Gold always sells, and if I only fetched enough American dollars for a big breakfast, I did not care.

 

A little alchemy, a little Transfiguration, and I had what appeared to be a handful of gold British Britannias. Thank Merlin I remembered what they looked like—hurrah for eidetic memory! Of course, I had only seen one in my life, my great uncle Basil had given one to me on my tenth birthday, and it was sitting in a fire proof lock box in my parent’s closet in Melbourne still.

 

My stomach made me irritable, but to sum up, I walked from the pawnshop with four hundred dollars for two fake Britannias. I was now a criminal, a counterfeiter, but I was too starved to care. I only sold two, keeping some sensibility that I might be questioned, by Bill, the proprietor of the pawnshop, standing before a shiny glass case of Muggle handguns. He only gave me a once over before calculating the worth of the pure gold bullions. Pawnshop owners never ask too many questions, apparently.

 

A fair amount of walking, more like slipping down the icy sidewalks, had me in the first open diner.

 

The Sister Bay Diner was the type of place you saw on American television, bright and cheery, smelling of deep fry and grease, with waitresses with too much makeup and old men sitting in booths, having risen early to congregate and drink coffee. It was just foreign enough to make me stand just inside the glass door and look about.

 

Please seat yourself, a sign said near the door, and so, I did, in a cracked red upholstered booth near the counter in the back of the diner where several men in heavy camouflaged coats were eating breakfast from platters and drinking strong coffee. Over the counter, on the wall, were boards with the day’s breakfast specials written in jazzy script.

 

“What’ll be, hun?”

 

I had not sensed the waitress approach, a buxom bottle blond woman with a nametag that read ‘Brenda.’ She had a small receipt tablet in her hand and a blue biro, waiting with a bored expression on her middle aged face.

 

“The Great Lakes Special?” I said with a plaintive edge. I had no idea what it was, but by the name, I assumed it was a large breakfast.

 

“How ya want your eggs?”

 

I blinked. How _did_ I want my eggs?

 

“Scrambled,” I said, seeing out the corner of my eye that one man was dripping egg yolk from his fried egg onto his lap from a bit of toast.

 

“Patties or links?”

 

“Pardon?”

 

‘Brenda’ looked at me, amused.

 

“You’re not from ‘round here, are ya?”

 

I shook my head, “Links.” She had meant bangers…?

 

“And to drink?”

 

“Coffee,” I said with a hungry, caffeine starved tone.

 

‘Brenda’ flashed a smile, stretching her pale pink painted lips and told me it would ‘come right up,’ but she would bring the coffee first, pulling out wrapped silverware from her apron and setting it before me on the table.

 

When she was gone, I sighed. It was not a minute before she returned with a thick mug, pouring coffee, and asking if I wanted cream. I did not and thanked her.

 

The first sip was heavenly, albeit very strong and bitter. I could almost feel the caffeine suffusing my brain, spreading to the rest of my body. I was fueling my brain, and I was thinking of what to do next.

 

I would Apparate to Chicago, find the local branch of the MACUSA, and arrange for a Portkey back to London. It might take a while, but I was sure I could afford it. My department head would be furious with me for missing work, and though I could not legitimately explain why I was in Chicago, I had a pleasant working relationship with my head. I could smooth it over.

 

A ‘Great Lakes Special’ was just what I had hoped—a large serving of scrambled eggs, link sausages, fried potatoes, thick sausage gravy, two biscuits, and a side of heated spiced apples. I ate as if I had been starved for years.

 

Brenda refilled my coffee twice as I ate, a satisfied smile on her lips, and I was not asked any questions. I had to resist the urge to lick the plate clean.

 

I asked for the lavatory, and finally saw myself in the mirror of the small room after tending to necessities and washing my hands. There was dust on my coat and in my hair, which was a literal solid tangle of curls. I had a streak of dried blood on my neck for some reason, and I remembered that when I had punched Lucius’ nose, it had spurted blood. The collar of my wool coat hid the blood, for the most part, but I then noticed that one of my knuckles was swollen on my left hand. My hands looked as though I had been punching a brick wall repeatedly, but my hands did not hurt, not yet.

 

I sighed and proceeded to wash my face and try to drag my fingers through my hair, unsuccessfully. I considered using my wand, but left it in my coat pocket with my Muggle American money. Until I could find a more private place, I would not draw my wand so near to Muggles.

 

As I exited the bathroom to finish my coffee and pay my bill, I realized as soon as I stepped out into the diner the cheery atmosphere had taken a turn toward the dark.

 

Standing in the middle of the diner, his nose repaired, the blood Vanished, was Lucius Malfoy. Everyone was staring at him. It was the combination of his dusty coat, his wild pale hair, the sneer on his face, and his overall air of ‘not belonging.’

 

He did not see me. I had pressed myself into the wall of the small corridor leading back to the lavatories, kitchen door, office, and back door. Ah, the back door, which had a sign reading in red letters ‘No Exit.’ It would be an exit if I wanted it to be an exit.

 

“I am looking for my wife,” Lucius announced to the morning patrons who looked at him with suspicious eyes over rims of coffee cups or over morning newspapers. “She would be about this tall…” and he raised a pale hand to his chest, approximately to where I would stand. “…in her early thirties, brunette, and in a dark red wool coat.”

 

What a generic description… I almost expected him to say ‘with a rat’s nest for hair, freckles on the bridge of her nose, dusty, with a sour expression on her face.’

 

“Has she been in?” he asked, his purring voice filling the diner.

 

No one spoke, but stared, suspicion turning into a type of enchantment.

 

I began edging for the backdoor. I had not thought he would come after me…

 

“She’s just in the bathroom, hun,” I heard my waitress say with a nervous chirp from somewhere near the counter where I could not see. “That’s her table there, if you wanna wait…”

 

I saw Lucius nod and then glide out of my range of vision.

 

I could just as easily slip out the back; have him pay for my meal, and Apparate to Chicago.

 

I did not, and for the life of me, I do not know why. I inhaled deeply, smoothed my hands over my coat, feeling my wand and money in my outer coat pocket, and nodded to myself. I returned to my table, seeing that Brenda, Merlin love her, brought Lucius a cup of coffee and had warmed my cup as well and taken away my empty plate and silverware.

 

Sliding into the booth, I found that the eyes of the customers had moved to the booth where Lucius sat with his elbows on the table, smiling demurely at me, as if we had planned to meet at the diner for breakfast.

 

We stared at each other, me with a scowl, he with the fake smile, until the eyes drifted away from our table and life resumed in the Sister Bay Diner.

 

“If you were my wife, Miss Granger, I would horse whip you for such an assault,” he said with a pleasant purr. “Luckily, you are not my wife…” he trailed.

 

I was not his wife so he would have no qualms about returning the favour in kind; I supposed he wanted to say.

 

I wanted to ask why he had ‘tracked’ me again, which was, obviously, the only reason why he would ever set foot in a ‘greasy spoon’ like this diner in Wisconsin. Then I remembered he wanted his money.

 

“You will return with me to Missoula once everything has settled down after the robbery, and you will get me my money, do you understand?”

 

He said this through his teeth, which were perfectly straight, white, and at the same time, menacing.

 

I did not answer him, my hands going for my mug to hold it between my hands to keep them from visible shaking from my anger and anxiety. I wanted to whinge and say that I wanted to go home, that I never wanted to see him again, but I hate whinging about anything.

 

“I will get your damned money, if you vow that you will never show yourself to me for the rest of your natural, or unnatural, life,” I hissed so low that I would not cause a stir.

 

Lucius did not make a sound, but barred his teeth a bit more, the smile turning into something far more sinister. He did not answer, and after several moments of this teeth baring and scowling, I could take no more.

 

I dug out two twenty-dollar bills and tossed them on the table from my coat, and slid out of the booth, not caring about change. I would find a way to keep him from tracking me, and that would be the end of it. As far as I was concerned, my dealings with Lucius Malfoy were over, he could figure out how to access his money by himself.

 

However, as I began to move to the door, his hand lashed out and caught my left wrist and I was jerked back toward the booth. Lucius’ scowl and barring of teeth had turned into a mask of unrestrained fury, and the hold on my wrist was crushing. He was about to rise when suddenly, thankfully, a voice sounded next to me.

 

“Is he bothering you, miss?”

 

I turned my eyes to the new figure, and saw that he was one of the men who had been sitting at the counter, and under his heavy camouflage coat, he had on a sheriff’s badge and carried a side arm in a holster at his waist. The Sister Bay Sheriff was a shorter man in his forties with a neatly trimmed moustache, black, and a full head of straight black hair that was also neatly trimmed and combed.

 

“Yes, sir,” I managed to grind out as Lucius squeezed my wrist tighter, apparently to warn me not to say a word.

 

The Sheriff’s right hand, which had been hanging by his side, slowly inched toward his gun.

 

“Is he your husband?”

 

The peace officer had a rich, deep, locally accented voice, and in that voice, I heard authority. This man was respected in the community, and again, all eyes were upon us.

 

“No, sir, he is not,” I stated, meeting the Sheriff’s dark eyes under thick black brows.

 

The stern façade of the man’s face only strengthened and he nodded, turning those dark eyes to Lucius who did not seem to want to acknowledge the only man with a gun in the diner.

 

“Sir, you will release this lady.”

 

My feeling of safety with a Muggle sheriff was misplaced. Lucius had proved that he could cast faster than a man could draw a gun. Compared to the Muggle sheriff, Lucius Malfoy was a seasoned warrior, a professional killer.

 

I considered this quickly as I glanced back to Lucius whose right hand was moving to his coat, slowly, out of the view of the sheriff.

 

“Sir, I am sorry to cause a stir, but I…” I started, but already the sheriff had a hand on my shoulder, stepping around me to speak to Lucius more directly, and already, Lucius had his wand in his hand under the table while slowly releasing my wrist with the other in order to move.

 

I could see the chain of events about to be set into motion, and the result would not be pleasant. Therefore, I did the one thing that made my insides scream about my pride, but my brain said ‘this is the best for all involved.’

 

I pretended to faint.

 

I am not a good actress. There was the time when I lured Umbridge into the Forbidden Forest to have her ultimately accosted and Merlin knows what else… There was the time I had to pass as Bellatrix Lestrange to enter the Lestrange vault… Other than that, I was a terrible actress.

 

However, my little ‘act’ had the desired affect.

 

I swooned, eyes rolling back into my head, mouth opening to release a sigh, my knees crumpling, my body going lax. There was a cacophony around me, and I was in the arms of Lucius Malfoy, his wand poking into the small of my back, hidden from view, and the waitress calling out for help. The sound of shuffling feet and the questions came.

 

Someone had pulled chairs from the central tables together to form a makeshift cot and I was laid down while someone pressed a cool towel to my forehead. I suppose I had pulled the swoon off, as Brenda was commenting how pale I looked.

 

Lucius, I could just see through my eyelashes, was bending over me, and to my surprise, he truly looked concerned, and began, like an idiot, slapping my cheeks gently, bringing colour back to my face.

 

Merlin’s hairy arse…

 

With a soft moan, to keep in the act, my eyes fluttered open.

 

“Oh thank goodness,” I heard Brenda say, but I did not see her.

 

Then the sheriff was leaning over me, pushing Lucius out of the way, his dark eyes studying my face with what appeared to be conflict.

 

I spoke, and the act evolved into something greater, worthy of an award.

 

“I’m sorry,” I began. “It is all a misunderstanding, sir…” I went on to explain that Lucius was not my husband, but my lover. I was his ‘girlfriend,’ and we had had an argument the night before.

 

“What about?”

 

I played that I might faint again, and the sheriff’s tone softened as he knelt down next to me on the chairs.

 

I confided in a whisper that I was pregnant. I did blush, honestly, at this false confession. I continued by saying that we, as in Lucius and myself, were on a vacation of sorts, as to explain our accents. The simplicity of the explanation worked.

 

“I don’t want the baby…” I trailed, feeling tears begin to well up in my eyes.

 

Oh what tripe.

 

I did not want the ‘baby,’ he did. We argued, I left our hotel in a rush the night before, and he found me, hoping to ‘work things out.’ It was all a misunderstanding, officer…

 

All the while, I was telling the Sister Bay Sheriff this tale, Lucius was standing near my feet, and he was still with blood draining embarrassment.

 

“Will you be safe with him, miss?”

 

I nodded, the damp towel falling from my forehead. “Yes, sir,” and said again, it was all a misunderstanding and that I was sorry for causing such a fuss.

 

Then, I was on the icy street again, holding Lucius Malfoy’s hand, still acting. We had left the diner; the bill paid with an extra tip, acting very much like the lovers I had claimed we were. The sheriff had followed us out, and before we turned the corner, I paused to move to the tips of my toes and kiss Lucius on the cheek before turning back to the sheriff to call out a thank you.

 

I did feel a little faint after the diner and the sheriff was out of sight. Though I felt faint, Lucius looked like his head was going to explode or implode, depending on how you wanted to interpret the bloodless skin, pale furrowed brow, and compressed lips. He looked as if he were trying to mentally wish something into existence or out of existence—that was how hard his face was…

 

We ended up walking right out of town, which took quite a while, and along the icy shore of the bay. The wind was cutting, but it was not enough to cause Lucius to stop from glaring at the dark water.

 

“I’m going to Chicago,” I said, breaking the silence, pulling my hand out his.

 

He said nothing, but stared out across the water.

 

I waited, my hunger gone, but my head aching as if I were still hungry.

 

“No, you are not.”

 

I sighed. I was so very much finished with this battle of wills. I took a step back from him, and he whirled, face shifting from stillness to ire.

 

His arms flew around me, and I knew he thought I was going to Disapparate. I had not planned to do such a thing at that moment, and his forward momentum had us both falling to an icy and rocky shore, knocking the air out of me and nearly sending my Great Lakes Special into the Great Lake.

 

I coughed for air, which burnt into my lungs, icy and dry.

 

Despite the clumsiness of the action, Lucius was still furious.

 

“You are the only magical person I have seen in five years! The only witch I will ever see for the rest of my life! Do you expect me to simply let you go on your way?” he shouted in my face, his breath hot and scented with coffee. “If I have only you, a filthy Mudblood, to connect me to my life, I will follow you to the ends of the earth just to be able to be…be Lucius Malfoy, Pureblood wizard!”

 

He rolled off me, while I was wide eyed with the violence of the sound of his voice that had assaulted my ears. I could even feel spittle on my face, cooling in the winter air.

 

Lucius stood with his back to me, his fists clenched at his sides, shoulder quaking.

 

“This is a fucking nightmare!” he screamed to the water.

 

I jumped at his voice just as I was sitting up on the shore.

 

“I don’t want to fall in love with you!”

 

I winced. The feeling was mutual, however, he had turned on me like a wild beast, his grey eyes flashing dangerously. His worn boots scuffed in the rocky shore, and I found myself scrambling backward, the palms of my hands cutting into the sharp ice and wet stone.

 

“But I have to, if I want to…”

 

His voice had dropped to a low growl, more dangerous than his expression.

 

I thought he might have gone mad.

 

“I will make you love me and break this sodding curse.”

 

I was on my feet by this point and my own boots dragged into the shore. My hand was on my wand in my pocket, and if I would need to hex him, I would. Or, if I had to use my fists again, bruising the knuckles until the skin broke and bled, I would.

 

“You, just you…” he mumbled, his shoulders dropping in defeat, his eyes growing distant, his voice softening. “Of all the witches in the world, it would be you.”

 

I blinked at his tone. Did he hate me so much?

 

Personally, I had never done anything, directly, to harm or offend the man. His son? Of course. But Lucius Malfoy? Never.

 

The idea of him hating me, offended me, and I felt a rush perilous pride.

 

“And you should be thankful it _was_ me, Malfoy!” I shouted at him, my hands balling into fists.

 

I was inviting more misery, but I was not really thinking that far ahead.

 

“I could have killed you and I would not have minded what consequences there were. I would be killing no one!”

 

The anger was in full throe, and I could not stop myself. I was screaming at him, venting my spleen. I was not fully aware how much bile I still had inside after so many years. I had come into realizing I was a witch in a world with Tom Riddle, and after his demise, I was still adjusting my mindset.

 

“Love you? I despise you and everything you stand for!”

 

Just like my temper, my true anger was extreme, and I was saying half-truths. I did despise him and everything he stood for, but the force behind my words was not so strong, at least, not in my head.

 

Lucius Malfoy expected compliance from everyone and everything, and when he did not get it, he attacked. I was not a victim, and would not be ever again.

 

“I hope you rot in your self-pity. I hope you never find peace or love or happiness. You deserve nothing bu—“

 

And he kissed me, and this time, I was Hermione Granger and not Narcissa Malfoy.


	6. VI

**VI**

 

 

 

My famous vampire friend could have expressed the moment in words better than I ever could. My friend would write of the analogy of love and war, or how anger can quickly evolve into passion. As for me, I can only say that Lucius Malfoy’s kiss was loaded with a mixture of things, all of which made my body respond.

 

I grabbed his shoulders and pulled him closer.

 

Anger, desperation, fear, self-pity, self-indulgence, it was all in the kiss, which deepened when he groaned into my mouth, his tongue dueling with my own.

 

The kiss lasted a century, but like all time, it eventually ended with us both stumbling back. I wiped my mouth with the back of my nearly numb hand, but I could not get rid of the taste of him. As for Lucius, he was staring at me, blinking, as if seeing me for the first time.

 

It was awkward.

 

I regained my bearings quickly, but Lucius was still staring, and then he asked a question, one so shocking that I think I actually stumbled back further from the impact of his soft and breathless words.

 

“Who are you?”

 

The wind was making every bone in my body ache, and I turned my face away and stared back to the village of Sister Bay, my hair flying into my face.

 

Lucius knew very well who I was, but did not. I was not the girl whom his sister-in-law tortured in the front parlour, nor was I the girl who seemed to be attached with a Sticking Charm to Harry Potter’s side. I was my own being now.

 

I began to see how he had been thinking when he found the ‘key’ to his curse.

 

He still thought of me as ‘that’ girl.

 

I was thirty-one years old, and I had made my own life the best I could. Lucius Malfoy would, naturally, not know me at all.

 

The hazy moments post-osculation passed, and we were standing on the icy, rocky shore of Lake Michigan.

 

How it came to be that I was back in Missoula, Montana, is yet another mystery.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Lucius regained a modicum of self, and stood tall on the same street corner across from Sterling Savings Bank, as if he were a statue erected in gratitude to his life.

 

He was man who had so much pride that he almost reeked of it.

 

The bank, which did not appear any different after the attempted robbery than it had before, was open. I almost expected it not to be.

 

I will not bore you with everything I did inside while Lucius waited outside, claiming that if someone were to come in again to rob it, they would meet him first. He then muttered something about the terrible security of the Muggle banks.

 

“How Muggle banking can exist without goblins or goblin enchantment is dumbfounding,” he had said.

 

I opted to draw out enough money that Lucius could use for six to eight months if he budgeted. While I was waiting for the currency to be counted and handed over, I wondered what he would do with the money. Would he use it to try to adjust into a Muggle’s life?

 

The robbery, I learned later, was a topic of the small city’s rumour mills. Personally, as I was drawing out large sums of money, I was sure the banker was quite suspicious of me, but did not seem to recognize me at all. I was nervous to have so much money on my person when I walked out of the bank, moving down the snowy sidewalk, Lucius gliding along at my side.

 

“No one remembers much about the robbery,” I told him, my voice fraught with a type of airy wonderment. “Did you modify their memories before I was shot?”

 

Lucius said nothing, but stared down at me as we walked.

 

The ‘rumour’ was this: men attempted to rob the bank early in the morning. No one was hurt badly, but the older security guard was knocked unconscious. Somehow, but no one seemed to remember, or were too busy trying not to draw attention, the robbers were incapacitated and the police swarmed the bank and ‘saved the day.’ There was no mention of hostages, or a tall, pale man waving around a twig and bright fireworks streaking through the lobby. No one was killed, but the mastermind of the robbery, the man who had shot me, had gone ‘off the deep end,’ or so I was told. All the money was returned, and there was not much of a story to tell.

 

However, rumours flew. It was generally accepted that the police had thrown a canister of ‘knock out gas’ through the window, and everyone was fine, but had itchy throats and eyes after the ordeal.

 

I had worried, on some level, that the MACUSA would be investigating, but the Muggles did not mention, how would they? We were not followed, as if we had not been in the bank at all.

 

All the better, I decided.

 

I veered off the street and into a service alley, where I finally stopped and turned to the pale man, far enough off the main street not to be noticed. The banker had given me two large banker’s bags with the cash inside, and though I had to sign several forms for the release of such funds, I felt as if I had a target on my back or a sign over my head reading ‘this woman is carrying a large amount of money, please mug her.’

 

“You should shrink these,” I said, drawing out the bags from under my coat, where I had carried them under my arms. I wished I had shrunk them myself, but I did not want to bring any more attention to myself than I already had.

 

Lucius glanced to the mouth of the alley before drawing his wand as if Conjuring it from his coat and did as I asked. His brand of silence and compliance immediately had me wondering.

 

His stoic expression was disconcerting.

 

He was planning something.

 

I had half a mind to ask him what he wanted with the money, why it had to be Missoula, Montana, but I did not. Instead, I took a step back from him, and lifted my chin and straightened my back.

 

I wanted to say ‘you are on your own,’ but instead, our eyes met and he sighed. A gust of winter air blew through the alley and made his pale hair dance about his stoic face, forcing him to raise a hand to brush a strand from his grey eyes. It was a casual motion that had my insides squirming.

 

As much as he did not know me, I supposed, I really did not know him either. It did not matter, to be honest.

 

“Go on then,” he rumbled, his voice low, deep, and defeated. “I can manage from here.”

 

I stared at him, my eyes narrowing. He had what he needed, and he was releasing me?

 

I was not going to argue.

 

How many seconds or minutes passed as we stared at each other, I did not remember. However, I found myself standing in the Great Hall of Union Station, Chicago, as if Missoula, Montana, and Lucius Malfoy never existed or had been the strangest dream.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I had not lost my job, though I did get a thorough reprimand from my department head when I returned to work three days after my ‘official’ sick leave day.

 

I moved as an automaton, wracking my brain to understand what had happened to me and why I felt as if I were confusing dream with reality. Half of me felt that if I just turned around, Lucius Malfoy would be standing just at my elbow, his face set in a ever-fixed scowl, demanding something of me that would take me from my comfort zone.

 

I worked late to make up the days I missed, but after a month, I moved and worked as if I never had laid eyes on Lucius Malfoy in my life. It was easy to forget, too easy, and though part of my subconscious was on alert, I ignored that part of my psyche.

 

After a month and into the next, spring was on the air in London, and I had switched to a lighter coat, placing my dark red long wool coat in the closet to draw out a tasteful long denim trench coat better suited for spring or autumn. I moved through my life as I had before Lucius Malfoy, I even made plans to visit Trento on an extended weekend I had coming up in April. Trento in spring is a glorious place with cool mountain air and blooming trees.

 

I finished my project in the D of M with great success nearly wiping out my indiscretion of missing three days of work from my head’s mind. I was already assisting on a new project with a colleague, which held promise. I visited Harry and Ron, I called my parents in Melbourne, I began combing out the winter fur from Crooks’ coat, and fell into my old routine.

 

Life was understandable—no mysteries.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Of course, life is never so understandable or so simple.

 

I was preparing for my long weekend in Trento by going to Hogsmeade and to Honeydukes to prepare a gift for my vampire friend who had responded to a letter I sent to tell him that I would be returning to Italy for my holiday. Ever trying to improve his confections, he asked that I would stop by the sweet shop and procure a few items he would like to study and adapt for his own shop in Venice.

 

James, never a wizard, only knew of Honeydukes from my descriptions. If the vampire lamented anything about his supernatural state, it was that he had never known of true witches and wizards in his mortal life. It was only afterward; when he himself was imbued with magic that he came to understand that the Muggle world was a layer above or below the magical world.

 

James was rather fond of Blood-flavoured lollipops, finding them a novelty, which they were, and I was to bring a box of that confection with me, among other things.

 

I arrived in Hogsmeade on a day after work, the spring weather not quite reaching the Highlands yet, and shivered as I began up the near empty streets to Honeydukes. What people I did meet on the street knew me, and nodded politely as they bustled on their way to wherever it was they needed to go. Honeydukes would close at seven in the evening and as I entered, I found that there were only a few people inside besides the proprietor, Ambrosius Flume, who was talking to a man and woman at the counter.

 

The bell on the door twinkled to silence as I stood inside the door, relishing the smell of spun sugar and the warmth of the lamps above my head and the heat in the shop itself.

 

Honeydukes brought a wash of good memories of youth, and I inhaled and sighed to exhale.

 

However, as I let my mind click back to my reason for coming into the shop, I looked at the other customers closer, but my eyes were drawn to the man and woman talking to Mr. Flume at the counter.

 

Long, pale blond hair.

 

The man and woman both had blond hair, but the man, who stood much taller than the woman, had a shade of blond that made my heart seize in my throat and my face palpably draining of blood and warmth.

 

The man turned his head to the woman, a smile on his lips as Mr. Flume began chuckling about something, and immediately I knew whose back I was staring at.

 

Draco Malfoy.

 

I had not seen the man, in person, for many years. In profile, he did not resemble his father so much as he did the Black side of his heritage. His features were markedly sharper in the nose and brow, but he had his father’s chin and eyes. He had grown into his features which were not so severe as those I remembered when we were teenagers, but the shape of him, from behind, was that of his father. Even the long pale hair was his father’s.

 

The woman, who I assumed was his wife, Astoria, had a shade of blonde that was more of a honey colour, fitting for her deep blue eyes and pretty face. She was smiling, a laugh playing on her perfectly nude painted lips.

 

“Come Scorpius, have you found all you would like?” Draco called, his voice very different from his fathers, not so deep, not so dangerously sensuous, but playful.

 

Draco Malfoy was happy, and I wondered if the happiness had anything to do with the fact that Lucius Malfoy did not and perhaps due to Edwinia Glump’s curse, never existed in Draco Malfoy’s world.

 

The scamper of small feet broke me from my spellbound state as a flash of black ran just past my thigh, and a boy, approximately four years old with a riot of blond curls moved to his parents with his arms full of brightly wrapped candies.

 

The boy, Scorpius, was a miniature of Draco as I remembered him the first time I had laid eyes on the boy. A pink faced cherub with angelic curls, and a carefree and innocent mien…

 

My heart slipped back into my chest and promptly began to break.

 

This was what Draco Malfoy should have been all those years ago, unburdened, spoiled, yes, but innocent and happy.

 

I damned Tom Riddle. I damned Lucius Malfoy.

 

“Hello, Miss Granger.”

 

Both Malfoys had turned when their son arrived, and were now looking at me as I stood awkwardly, pale in the face, my lips trembling.

 

Draco had spoken and I inhaled.

 

I smiled.

 

“Mr. Malfoy,” I said with an inclination of my head.

 

Draco whispered to his wife, drawing out a wallet and passing it to her to pay for their son’s purchases before stepping toward me, still smiling.

 

I then wondered how Draco’s memory had been modified by the curse.

 

He wore long velvet robes, not black as I first thought, but a deep emerald that appeared black in a certain angle of light. He wore a fine business suit under the cloak, so different from Lucius, and he smelled like my own father—aftershave children give to their fathers.

 

Draco Malfoy was a husband, a father, and a man, and I had to admit, I was in awe of him.

 

“It has been some time, hasn’t it?” he asked, his grey eyes peering down at my face, but not with disgust or hatred, but honest curiosity.

 

“It has,” I agreed. “That is your son?”

 

Draco nodded.

 

I had only read an announcement some time ago about the birth of a Malfoy heir, and promptly forgot about it.

 

“He is a very handsome young man,” I commented.

 

Draco smiled; I suppose it was the types of compliment parents like to hear. With Harry’s children, I fawned on them, calling them pet names, which made Ginny ecstatic.

 

“Thank you. You seem to be well?”

 

I nodded.

 

I never liked this sort of small talk. “I work for the Ministry,” I added.

 

Draco only nodded, and I did not know how to interpret the motion. Luckily, I was saved by Astoria Malfoy and her son who had a bag of candy in his arms, his face a mask of sheer ecstasy.

 

“Well then, have a good evening, Miss Granger,” Draco said smoothly, a smile still on his lips.

 

I wished the family the same, and stepped out of the way to let them pass. The twinkling of the doorbell sounded their exit and I felt as if I had been holding my breath for ages.

 

A depression settled into my chest as pieces of my heart were chipped away.

 

I was envious.

 

The depression over the Malfoys was different from that I felt every time I went to visit Harry and Ginny. This depression was more poignant, painful. A realization came.

 

Lucius would never see this happiness in his own family, and never experience it for himself. How utterly wrong.

 

I went about the shop in a huff, angry, depressed, and wallowing in self-pity that was and was not my own.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My flat in Trento was just as I had left it, even the repaired armchair still looked like a shadow of its former self, the Charms I had used to repair it still not giving the piece of furniture much more that is original shape. It was this armchair that I collapsed into after a night in Venice with James, going to clubs, drinking too much wine, and laughing so much that my throat hurt.

 

James, despite being a vampire, knew how to entertain the living. He had a magnificent palazzo near Ca’ d’oro, which he said he had coveted as a mortal and only as a vampire, could own. It was in this palazzo that he had hosted a grand soiree of Venetian and foreign guests, Muggles and Magical, and, in which, a great party occurred.

 

The decadences of his mortal life continued into James’ immortal life. I suppose only Death Eater orgies, if the rumours had been true, could compare.

 

I returned to Trento, intoxicated, throat sore, feet sore from dancing, neck bruised from nibbles by men I met, and lips dry from all the kissing of cheeks and lips.

 

I suppose I could go into depth about the party, but the important event of the night, or early morning just before dawn, occurred after I returned to my flat.

 

I was in a dress of red and gold, far too daring and stylish to pass for decent in London, my feet crammed into three and half inch heels, and my hair coiffed in curls and red ribbons, my makeup, which had bee meticulously applied, smeared. I was beginning to doze in the chair after kicking off the heels across the living space, when a strong knocking sounded on my door.

 

I thought I might be dreaming. Rarely does anyone knock on my flat door in Trento besides the landlady or someone bringing an delivery only after I answer the call from the lobby door and allow them into the building.

 

The knocking grew more insistent the longer I delayed to rise to my feet and pad to the door. What I saw through the ‘peep hole,’ had me frowning and I unlocked the door and tried not to appear to far gone than I truly was.

 

“Signore?”

 

To have the Polizia on your doorstep just before dawn is never a good sign. Neither is a sleepy landlady in a robe and her hair in a sleeping cap, nor is a rumpled man in a black coat with long pale hair, sneering at you from behind the other two.

 

A conversation proceeded in Italian, and I was blinking all the while.

 

The short of it was this: Lucius Malfoy had been wandering up and down the street before the apartment building and as he forced his way into the lobby, the Polizia ‘happened’ to spot him. The officer immediately roused the landlady whose small flat was just off lobby to inquire if Lucius was a tenant. Lucius claimed to be waiting for me to arrive home and when I would not answer the door, he began to force his way in, thus, landing three people on my doorstep.

 

“Do you know this man?” the police officer then asked in Italian.

 

I said I did, but… And trailed, unable to force my mind to work fast enough to form a lie to diffuse the growing tense situation. My landlady was angry, and I sympathized with her. I could see she had questions. I had been a model renter, never disturbing the other tenants, or herself in the past, and suddenly to have a strange, pale man, most likely casting a spell on the door, breaking in?

 

“Please, this is just all a misunderstanding,” I began, saying in almost the same tone I had used in the diner in Wisconsin that there was no problem and the fuss was unintentional.

 

I tried to be convincing, and it worked as Lucius passed by me into the apartment, and I made my apologies to both the police and my landlady, who was dubious as to how well I knew the pale man. I often wondered if the woman was not a Squib at how intuitive she was…

 

And then, the door was shut and locked, the footsteps fading in sound down the steps, and Lucius Malfoy was in my apartment, already making himself at home.

 

I had yet to undress or wash my face. I had yet to stop my body and mind from buzzing from the wine I drank or the kisses pressed into my skin to make me feel as if my body were on fire with repressed need.

 

“I waited for two days for you to be here.”

 

He was standing just at the windows, looking out to the lightening sky.

 

“When your landlord in London told me you were on a short holiday, it took me some time to get here, and by the time I arrived, you had been in Venice for some time. I even looked to the sweet shop only to meet with a dead end.”

 

I was standing just by the kitchen counter, my thin sateen red and gold dress feeling far too little to cover my body in Lucius Malfoy’s presence. It had not felt so bare before my landlady and the police officer.

 

“I was just about through the lobby door, ready to come up to wait for you inside when the Muggle police stoppe—“

 

“What do you want?” I asked suddenly, cutting off his words, which were not angry, but annoyed that I had not been where he could get to me easily, as if I were at his disposal.

 

He turned, dressed in a nice button down dark grey shirt, tucked into a pair of expensive black trousers. He wore a newer pair of boots, not dragon hide, but leather that would have cost me a month’s salary perhaps. He looked well, not so thin as he had been the last time he was in the flat. Lucius was well kempt, and from where I stood, I smelled a faint hint of rich cologne.

 

It was a stark contrast to the last time we had met in the flat.

 

“Money? Do you need me to somehow arrange for you to get more?”

 

I was tired and wished for a long hot shower, perhaps a self-administered foot massage, and a long sleep to recover before returning to London late the next evening.

 

Lucius stared at me, as if regarding my state for the first time. His eye moved over my bare ankles up the visible skin of my shins to my knees, up the skirt to my cinched waist, along the bodice of the dress to the low cut collar. I had worn a modern interpretation of a corset under the bodice that lifted my breasts high, forming an impressive curve of cleavage.

 

I felt like a trollop under his gaze.

 

He did not say a word, but sat down slowly on the ottoman, his elbows on his knees, his hands folding before him, a posture I had seen Lucius adopt several times since our more recent acquaintance.

 

“What do you want?” I asked again, a bit softer than before.

 

Lucius grinned, a disconcerting sight, if I have not mentioned it before.

 

“That question could have half a million different answers,” he mused.

 

“What do you want from me?” I asked, feeling only seconds away from either hexing him or passing out into a lovely sleep.

 

The grin did not flicker or fade.

 

“I want to fall in love.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Lucius Malfoy had apparently learned not to underestimate me after knocking him about with my fists, so when I took a step toward him, my face dark with irritation quickly evolving to ire, he stood abruptly and placed the ottoman between us.

 

“I will make you a deal…”

 

“No deals,” I muttered. “If this is all you have to say to me, you might as well take up your coat and show yourself out, Mr. Malfoy.”

 

The expression of disappointment that crossed his face at that moment only further irritated me.

 

Yet, he continued speaking as if he had not heard my words.

 

“You are a handsome witch, Granger. I am a rich man, no matter that I might never be part of the magical world again. You saw only a fraction of my available finances…”

 

“Do you think me so petty as to care about your sodding money, Malfoy?”

 

No matter how tired I was, Lucius Malfoy, his kith and kin, seemed to bring out some hidden energy that would allow me to slip into a towering rage. I had a thought that I was not the only person who would slip into such a state where Malfoy’s were concerned.

 

Again, he did not seem to care about anything I was saying to him or that magic, sparked by my agitation, was beginning to crackle audibly over my skin.

 

“I could give you anything you want, whether it be—“

 

“Get out.”

 

He blinked, and in his eyes, I saw that he realized he had miscalculated.

 

I suppose that all he ever really knew of women was their greed. I could not speak for his ex-wife, but I knew that many a witch was attracted to his fey beauty only a bit less than they were attracted to his chequebook. Lucius Malfoy only knew so much because those were the only sorts who came ‘sniffing around.’ I, obviously, was not to be wooed by means of money. In fact, if Lucius Malfoy were truly a pauper, I might be somewhat attracted to him. As it was, he was still as proud, as ignorant, and as infuriating as ever.

 

“Let me…”

 

“Get out,” I ground out, my fists curling. My wand was currently inaccessible, in the pocket of my coat hanging by the door. Of course, a quick Summoning would remedy that detail, but if I could get the man away from me without any violence, I would prefer it.

 

“You haven’t even…”

 

“Continue speaking, and I swear by the gods…” I trailed, my ire already beginning to wane as my store of energy was being used.

 

He left, grabbing his coat in a flourish, and stalking past me, hideously angry, not at me, but at his miscalculation, and was out the door before I could turn to see him go.

 

Of course, this would not be the end of it all, but for the time being, it was enough.

 

Lucius Malfoy had stalked me back to Trento, and when I returned to London the next evening, still fuming, he followed me back to London.

 

I decided his sudden decision to pursue me was getting out of hand when I found he had somehow managed to enter my Islington flat to place sprays of flowers in large vases about the living area.

 

First, sitting closer toward the door, were arrangements of yellow carnations, which in the language of flowers meant ‘you have disappointed me.’ Further into the flat were vases of gorgeous red tulips, a ‘declaration of love,’ and violet lilac sprays with white clover, the first meaning ‘first sign of love,’ and the second meaning ‘promise.’

 

I tallied a rough estimate of the cost of the flowers and balked. The lilac was just beginning to bloom, and the carnations were hothouse flowers. The sheer amount of blooms made the flat reek of sweetness that I had to open a window.

 

If this was how Lucius Malfoy intended to woo me without actually confronting me, it was a waste.

 

Had he somehow been schooled by some hopeless romantic on the ways to woo a woman? The language of the flowers was a clue. It was dated, it was ridiculous, and it was wasteful. It also showed his ignorance. I hate hothouse and cut flowers.

 

I ended up vanishing the carnations, which galled me, but kept the lilac, which I do like. The lilac scent was clean and more fitting to my tastes.

 

The flowers, I would find, was only the beginning.

 

Two days after the flowers, coming home from work, I found a note slipped under my front door. It was a formal apology, written with a hope that I would consider a proposal. The script was large, bold, and I, only having a slight interest in graphology, interpreted the handwriting thus: the forward slant of the letters—high emotional expressiveness, the pressure of the pen pressed into the paper—stress, the angular letters—directness, etc.

 

Lucius Malfoy was desperate to break his curse.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The notes turned into full-blown letters, and the mode and means of how they began appearing in my coat pocket or in my letterbox in the apartment building, was due to some sort of Charm.

 

Lucius wrote to me, always first mentioning a ‘proposal’ and I would scowl at his words then skim the rest, which was more like a treatise as to why I should read his reasons as to why I should allow him to ‘woo’ me.

 

With the amount of parchment wasted, I could have re-skinned a herd of animals.

 

The letters came daily, for two weeks. It was May, and the nice weather was darkened every time I found a letter in my coat pocket, which soon became the usual place to find the missive.

 

Soon, the day came, where I did not find the letter in my pocket as I went to work. I had half a mind to celebrate somehow that there was not a letter. I went about my day with a lightened mood, even volunteering to add more items to the ‘junk cupboard,’ where my day would take what seemed to be its darker turn.

 

As I mentioned, I had not thought much about my last visit to the warehouse, or the strange item I had found on the twenty-third rack up from the floor. I suppose my mind was too busy trying to find a sense of ‘normal’ after meeting Lucius in that alley, and whatever normal contemplative thoughts I usually had were diverted to a deeper part of my psyche.

 

I found the ball again and something clicked in my head, resounding so loudly that I nearly tumbled off my Conjured ladder.

 

Of course, I have mentioned this before, but everything in my world tilted and I found myself hyperventilating. I felt incredibly stupid.

 

Had I inadvertently altered the course of my destiny by being attracted like a magpie to a pretty, shiny object? Speaking of magpies…

 

I stared at the ball for a long while, my legs beginning to shake as I stood on a rung high above the floor, my hands aching from clutching the ladder so roughly. I think I cursed.

 

It was as I was walking home, opting to let the spring air clear my head, that I found a letter in my coat pocket.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

As I walked from Angel station, I began reading, and it was as I read the letter that fate took a literal swipe at me, and I was certain that I had incurred bad luck.

 

The black cab barreled out of nowhere, and I, the letter, went flying through the spring air, as impact came immediately after stepping off the curb. However, it was more than my body and the letter that flew, but another person, whose larger body wrapped me in its arms. Someone on the street yelled, a passerby, and I found I could not breathe.

 

When a traumatic event happens, you can never seem to breathe. Of course, for me, the exception was the bank robbery in Missoula. I could breathe quite well then.

 

I flew, and already, I knew I was badly injured before I slammed into the road surface. The squeal of brakes and tires, the scent of blood, the warmth of those arms that held me, I sensed it all as if it were all that anchored me to the living world.

 

Bad luck indeed and all had to do with the man who had tried to push me out of the way of the black cab. The letter, my reading of it, my lack of attention due to the letter, the man, it was all bad, the worst luck. Destiny was trying to get my attention. It had it.

 

The collision with the road came, and whatever air I had in my lungs, was knocked loose through my teeth in a high hiss. I could feel my ribs breaking, my shoulder, where I had been shot before, shattering, blood spewing from my mouth after the hiss of air. Above me, around me, I could feel his body contorting, shivering from impact, but no bones breaking. I had taken the brunt of the blow of metal and glass.

 

I was unaware if my organs were intact, but the pain, exquisite and real, made me wish I would die.

 

Time, I had lost track of time again, but I could hear distant klaxons of emergency services and the shouting of the cab driver and the sickly odour of burnt rubber. People were gathering, but not so much looking at me as the man above me.

 

Look away, look away; I wanted to scream—nothing to see here! Not some mangled woman or a pale haired man shouting in her face in unintelligible words.

 

“…Mungo’s! Goddamnit, woman!” was all that came through.

 

I had blood in my ears.

 

Then, he was gone, emergency services had come and I was being lifted after much light being shone in my eyes. Then, I was in an ambulance, Lucius Malfoy, seemingly well enough to sit next to my cot, leaning over me as the emergency worker tried to push him away to save my life.

 

Everything happened too quickly, and I was conscious for all of it. Even when I was shot, I had kept conscious. I wondered if there was something wrong with my brain, or if my pain threshold was so high that I would not shut down to save my sanity. Maybe all the injuries I had sustained in the years during the War had tempered my body somehow, but I could only wish I were invulnerable to the pain.

 

As I was swiftly carted into a Muggle hospital, Lucius Malfoy at my side, holding my hand, his face a vision of true distress not only at my state but the alien atmosphere of the emergency department, I wondered if he had been following me without my notice. I also realized, now that I was being admitted to hospital, that I was affectively incapacitated, and prey to the man who was shouting like a lunatic that a ‘Healer’ should see to me before all others.

 

I wanted to tell him that as soon as we were alone, to take me to St. Mungo’s.


	7. VII

**VII**

 

 

 

 

As I lay in a hospital bed near a window with a view of a blank brick wall, I pondered many things at my leisure.

 

First and most immediate was my physical state. I had tubes running into my body and bandages wrapping most of my torso. My shoulder and left arm was in a cast that was lifted via a support away from my body. The cast itched. I had bruises on nearly every inch of my body and cuts, which had stitches that also itched. What was probably the most uncomfortable part was the catheter, which made me keep very still.

 

The doctors had been surprised that I had little internal damage, considering the exterior of me. I had not needed any surgery beyond the repair to my shoulder, which I was informed, would need physical therapy after the cast was removed.

 

I was on painkillers, which made my thoughts fluid and smooth flowing over the interior landscape of my skull.

 

The police had been by to ask about the accident, and I had to admit that I knew little as to the events that landed me immobile in a private hospital room that I knew would cost me more than I wanted to pay.

 

I had been in the hospital for four days.

 

My wand was in pieces, and I had no backup, not having replaced my second wand for whatever reason after Lucius Malfoy destroyed it in Trento. It had slipped my mind, I suppose.

 

Speaking of Lucius, he had not left my side.

 

He was play acting as my husband again, talking with the doctors, the nurses, supposedly providing ‘moral support.’ He had also spoken with the Muggle authorities, telling them more details of my accident, while he himself did not seem to be injured in the least.

 

“My wife was distracted, officer… She was slightly upset when she inadvertently stepped into the street…”

 

And so it went.

 

With the lubricant of painkillers, it was easy to ignore him, not to mention that he seemed more like a wall fixture than a person in the hospital room.

 

I continued to stare out the window, or slept when I could.

 

Besides my physical state, I wondered about my job. Had anyone been informed that I was in a Muggle hospital? Of course, Lucius Malfoy could inform no one of importance, he could only see the Muggles.

 

My parents had not been notified. I had not been carrying any means of identification, as was normal when I came and went from my flat to the Ministry, bypassing Muggle London entirely.

 

As far as the Muggle world knew, I was Hermione Malfoy.

 

Malfoy was a strange name to the Muggles that held no validity whatsoever.

 

Oddly, besides my immediate physical state, I pondered the letter I had been reading when I was struck by the black cab.

 

Lucius’ words were that of confession, which had distracted me when I stepped off the curb.

 

‘I do not know what it is to ‘fall in love,’ I suppose. When I married Narcissa, it was out of duty, and love came later. It was a gradual process, not some grand passion. We were stuck with each other, bound by title, by contract. Even when Draco was born, I admit, I was fond of Narcissa, but love? How was I to begin to understand such a concept.

 

My mother loved me, as a mother should love a child of her womb. My father loved me, as a father loves a son who will someday replace the weight of his responsibilities. But to ‘fall in love?’ I know nothing of it.

 

There are tomes upon tomes about love, poetry, drama, art, but it meant nothing to me.

 

Here is where I should begin begging…’

 

That was all I was able to read before being struck by the black cab.

 

I had to admit that I was of a similar situation as Lucius Malfoy. After so many years of contemplation, I realized I had never been ‘in love,’ not truly. With Ron, there was so much passion, but it was not a passion that he inspired. It was always situational, an external stimulus that sent me falling into his arms.

 

Viktor Krum was a friend, and my first real crush. We had not spoken in some time.

 

Then there were the lovers I took for no longer than a few nights, which really do not warrant mentioning beyond that.

 

I suppose if I were to have someone who was close to the feeling of ‘true love’ it would be Harry. I loved Harry, as a sister would love a brother, and that was the closest feeling I had of love for anyone.

 

I could live without being ‘in love,’ and until laying, half sitting up in the hospital bed, looking as if I had been mauled by a hippogriff, I wondered if it mattered at all if I never would love. I did not know what I missing, of course, so how would I want it at all?

 

If love was like what one read in books or saw in movies, I did not want it. To lose one’s reason over a single person was madness. Besides, loving Lucius Malfoy would be a Herculean task.

 

How could anyone love a man whose very presence caused irritation?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Harry came the next day; word finally making it back to the magical world that Hermione Granger was in a Muggle hospital, wandless, and immobile.

 

He was angry.

 

“How could this happen?” he asked me, his beautiful emerald eyes scanning my bruised face, the cast and the tubes running out of my body.

 

I did not answer him, for in the background, Lucius Malfoy had begun pacing, oblivious to Harry.

 

“I am going to arrange for a transfer,” Harry grumbled, his hand moving to touch my grubby curls, which was more like a brown fuzz about my head.

 

“Would you?” I asked, my throat scratchy. “I would love to be out of this cast.”

 

“Who are you talking to?”

 

Lucius’ voice cut through the room like an icy blade of steel, and he had paused in his pacing to visually scan the room with his even colder grey eyes.

 

“Harry,” I said, both to speak to my old friend and to tell Lucius what he wanted to know.

 

“Are you in pain?” Harry asked, his angry face shifting to a softer, sympathetic face.

 

“Potter?” Lucius huffed, frozen just behind Harry, obviously straining his eyes to see or sense something. “It took him this long to find you? What sort of friend—“

 

“Just a little, but if you can get me out of here…the faster the better,” I sighed.

 

At St. Mungo’s…could Lucius follow? He seemed to be able to slip into Diagon Alley; surely, he could Apparate into St. Mungo’s.

 

“I’ll speak to someone now,” Harry announced, his face setting.

 

Strangely, as Harry turned to leave the room, he sidestepped Lucius as if he knew the man was there. This shocked me on some level, but I let the shock slip away, the emotion lubricated as I punched a button on a tube to inject more medicine into my veins.

 

Lucius was at my side immediately, staring down at me, conflicted. I realized I had not spoken to him at all since arriving to the hospital.

 

“If I had the ability, I would have taken you…” he trailed and then sighed. “I could not see anyone… I…” again he trailed and shook his pale head, unable to say more.

 

I turned my eyes to the window again.

 

“Harry will see to it.”

 

“Potter…” he mumbled darkly and stepped away from the bed to begin pacing again.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Lucius Malfoy, for all intents and purposes, could have been my imaginary friend at St. Mungo’s. No one saw him, and he saw no body. To him, the halls were empty of patients, the portraits in the ward corridors blank.

 

To him, I was the only person in the world at the moment when the Healers began tutting about my Muggle stitches while smearing bruise vanishing cream into my face. The bones in my shoulder would have to be re-grown which would take overnight, but my ribs were mended quickly.

 

“Is the Healer still here?” Lucius asked, leaning into the wall next to the head of my bed.

 

I nodded.

 

“Will you be able to leave in the morning?”

 

I nodded, wondering if to Lucius, the movement of my hospital gown registered in his brain as the Healer began rubbing more cream into my ribs.

 

“Do try to get some rest, Miss Granger,” the female Healer said, moving the screens about the bed into place.

 

The itchy cast was gone, as were the stitches, but I would still have some scars after enduring ‘barbaric Muggle healing.’

 

“The Healer is gone,” I informed Lucius.

 

I leaned back into the pillows on the narrow hospital bed, wishing I had my wand to cast a Cleansing Charm so I did not feel as if I were wallowing in my own filth. I was glad the catheter was gone, but I still felt that I needed a good wash.

 

Lucius pushed off the wall and proceeded to sit on the edge of the bed, near my bare, yet blanket covered feet. The positioning was intimate, as was his gaze.

 

“I apologize.”

 

I blinked at him. I did not think the concept of apologizing existed in his mind.

 

“I should have moved faster, Apparated, perhaps.”

 

Again, I blinked at him as his gaze fell to the dip in the collar of my hospital gown and the yellowish cream beginning to absorb into the bruises near my shoulder, which was actually in a cloth sling.

 

“You have been following me.”

 

He nodded. “And a good thing I did…”

 

Lucius drawled his words, proudly.

 

“How is it you were not hurt?”

 

“I was, I healed myself…”

 

I sighed. His injuries had to be minor if he had healed himself. Then again, I supposed he would have to heal himself. No Healer could help him now.

 

Silence fell in the area around my bed and distantly, I could hear someone cough down the ward.

 

“Why are you not blaming me?”

 

His question was a whisper.

 

“You have been shot, struck by a Muggle taxi cab…”

 

Why indeed?

 

Perhaps it was not until I found that fated device in the D of M that I became the one who could break Lucius Malfoy’s curse. This thought disturbed me at how viable it could be.

 

I had brought this all upon myself.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

That night, while Lucius had left me alone for a while to sleep, I considered my previous thought and found it to be a revelation that had come too late.

 

In the morning, I was suspended from my job.

 

Besides missing three days of work after my ordeal in Missoula, I had missed even more days by lying in a Muggle hospital with no word to my department head.

 

Suspended pay pending review, the failure of a joint project, it culminated into more bad luck…

 

To be honest, I laughed when the owl came, dropping the letter on my lap, wet droppings splattering me in the face as the bird swooped, turned, and made its way out of the ward. Owls in a hospital, how hygienic…

 

Lucius was still missing.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The wand shop, now run by an Ollivander cousin by the name of Harold, proved that I indeed was in dire straits when it came to luck.

 

I had expected the process of procuring a new wand to be simple. However, my Vinewood with dragon heartstring was no longer my wand. It took over an hour to find a suitable replacement. Not even the walnut with dragon heartstring responded to my touch.

 

I ended up with a thirteen-inch yew and Thestral hair wand. The symbolism associated with the materials used made me want to cry.

 

Death.

 

I was too nervous to try to Apparate home, and took the Floo to a backroom of a pub two blocks from my flat, careful to look both ways before crossing the street.

 

Though my bones had been re-grown, my shoulder and ribs ached. My clothing had been thrown away, too bloody to salvage, when I was in the Muggle hospital and I had been given a robe found in the lost and found bin, laundered, to wear over a pair of drawstring, overlarge, pants and Transfigured blouse. Getting home, I knew the first thing I wanted to do was bathe, but the wand had been more important.

 

I had no more mishaps. I made it to my flat safely, and found it empty.

 

Sinking into a steaming tub, I groaned, the heat relaxing my taut muscles and achy joints. I lay for a long time, staring through the steam to the blank ceiling.

 

If I gave in, broke Lucius Malfoy’s curse, would my luck change?

 

Thoughts of brewing a batch of Felix Felicis and overdosing, or bathing in the potion, crossed my mind.

 

I think I started to sob, I knew I was whimpering, the sound of my voice echoing through the bathroom as the truth of my life crashed down upon me.

 

I had brought this on myself.

 

Temporarily unemployed, obviously prone to fate’s malevolent designs, what did I have to lose by helping Lucius Malfoy now? What did I have to lose by ‘falling in love?’ Absolutely nothing.

 

Did this mean that I would automatically accept this notion of ‘falling in love?’ Absolutely not.

 

I would have to Obliviate years of fear and dislike of the man to begin to see him in a new light. However…

 

If I were to weigh my options…

 

The bath water was getting cold, and I rose, still feeling slightly stiff, and wrapped my hair and my body in the comfort of my thick towels. I did not care if I soaked my bed; I was due for a nap.

 

I padded, wet footed, toward the bed in the other room, bypassing Crooks who was watching me with one eye open from the armchair. He did not seem to need me for any reason, and I did not check on his food bowl in the kitchen.

 

I did not bother getting under the covers.

 

Blessed sleep took me, and I had warm, fuzzy dreams. That was, until I heard something from the waking world that roused me. I opened my eyes to a darkened flat, to find someone standing at the foot of my bed.

 

The lights came on in the kitchen, magic, and standing near my bare, and now dry feet, was Ronald Weasley.

 

“Merlin…” he breathed, and quickly turned his back to me. “I…erm…Harry said…”

 

I realized the towel I had wrapped about me was lying under me and my body, devoid of bruises, was bare.

 

“…thought you might need someone to come feed Crooks…”

 

A flustered Ron is always an adorable Ron, but as it was, I was naked, and Ron was not the only person in the room.

 

Lucius Malfoy, who was standing just at the corner of the small corridor from the front door and bath, was blinking rapidly at me, oblivious that Ron was in the room.

 

How it came to be that I had two men in my flat, simultaneously, was, as I conceded, bad luck at it again.

 

I could not move fast enough to grab the towel, the duvet, and a few damp pillows to cover myself. I had half a mind to start screaming, but only blushed.

 

“Erm, when did you get back?”

 

I only sighed, shaking my head to Lucius who, like Ron, began to turn his back to me, high spots of colour marking his cheeks.

 

“This afternoon,” I said, finding my new and disgustingly brittle wand on the bedside table.

 

Lucius glanced back at the sound of my voice, dawning realization forcing the spots of colour from his cheeks.

 

“Oh…well…”

 

I Summoned a bathrobe, a blue, thick terry cloth robe Ginny bought me after she discovered Harrods soon after marrying Harry. The robe flew from the bath and past both men, who seemed startled. I donned it post-haste.

 

The yew and Thestral hair wand was responsive, and it hummed in my hand, but send chills down my arm.

 

Ron turned when the sound of my rising signified that I was decent, and he blushed still.

 

Ron was an attractive man, no longer so gawky as he had been as a teenager, the freckles faded, his shoulders wide, and his smile infectious. I knew there were plenty of women in my own department that sometimes made out of the way trips ‘topside’ to catch sight of him when word came he was in the Ministry. He was, and would always be, a great, true friend.

 

“How are you feeling?” he asked as I passed by him and then Lucius who was now leaning into the wall, arms crossed.

 

I wanted to know why Lucius was in my flat, how he managed to get in, again. Of course, if I were to start speaking to him directly, who knows what Ron might think of me? Ron already thought I was a little barmy, claiming that the lack of sunlight in the basement of the Ministry gave me too pale a colouring and a snarky wit that had only worsened the longer I worked there.

 

“Fine,” I answered, moving to the refrigerator to open it and pull out a bottle of spring water I had brought back from Trento—locally bottled, and cheap. “Considering…” I trailed, remembering all too quickly that I was not really ‘fine.’

 

Ron moved to the kitchen counter, sitting on a high stool. In the lights of the kitchen, his blue eyes blazed, concerned. I realized then, he was dressed to ‘go out.’ I knew this for Ron only ever wore denims and tee shirts under his robes for work, but tonight, he was in a smart pair of black trousers with a pale blue button down shirt, the top button undone to give him a playful look. Even his deep red hair was combed neatly, and he was shaven, smelling of musky spice. Ron had a date.

 

“Harry mentioned that you might…” he trailed, and shook his head, obviously thinking that he should not mention whatever it was he was about to say.

 

I leaned into the lower counter on the other side of the bar, my hair in damp tangles from where the towel had fallen from my head during the nap.

 

“Mentioned what?” I asked, pausing as I unscrewed the lid from the cold water bottle.

 

“Your job…” Ron said, sheepishly, not meeting my gaze.

 

So, Harry knew? Who else? The pale man who was playing voyeur only feet away, trying to imagine the other side of my seemingly one-sided conversation.

 

“I’ve been suspended, pending review,” I said, before drinking several gulps of the Alpine waters.

 

Ron frowned. “And you were struck by a black cab…”

 

I sighed again. The cab happened first, the suspension after…

 

“Don’t worry.”

 

He raised his face to me, trying to smile, but failing. “But I do, I will,” he whispered.

 

An awkward silence fell, which was broken when Lucius shifted, apparently bored with my staring what would appear to me to be empty space.

 

“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” I reminded him, and he finally smiled.

 

“Yeah. I’m meeting Parvati for dinner.”

 

I felt an eyebrow rise, but I smiled and then chuckled. Ron’s infectious smile widened.

 

Good for him. Parvati had grown into a level headed, responsible, very attractive, and popular physician, working in a hospital in Enfield.

 

“Well, if you’re alright, I should be going.”

 

“I’m fine.”

 

What a liar.

 

Ron came around the counter, and hugged me.

 

Lucius made a noise that sounded like a cross between a startled shout and a growl.

 

Then, booming: “Weasley!”

 

Ron placed a kiss on my forehead and made his goodbyes. He showed himself out.

 

I was left to scowl at Lucius, who had pushed off the wall and began to follow Ron to the door.

 

He could see him.

 

However, as the front door banged shut, the pale man stared at the backside, his body visibly trembling.

 

“When someone touches you… I can see them, but only for a few seconds.”

 

Lucius whirled, and his face was startling. There was elation, realization, and pure, unadulterated jealousy.

 

“What did he say to you?” he demanded.

 

I did not answer, clutching my water bottle in my hand so roughly that the plastic began to crumple.

 

“Why was he here?”

 

My wand was in my robe pocket, and I considered hexing him.

 

He had entered the sanctuary of my home, uninvited, and unwelcome. I was still fuzzy in the head from my nap and everything that had happened to me in the past few days. I was so inundated with too many conflicting emotions that I could not, for perhaps the first time in so long, sort myself out.

 

Anger was so easy.

 

“I, unlike you, still have people who care about me,” I ground out. “Why are you here?”

 

Haughty, so haughty… He lifted his chin, his grey eyes catching the kitchen light to sparkle with either mirth or triumph.

 

“I have come to make you a proper proposal.”

 

How easily he was distracted! If only…

 

Lucius Malfoy was a man whose will was so strong that even I, at times, had difficulty in resisting his natural strength, but I did, and for all the better of my self-worth.

 

“Oh?” was all I said.

 

He moved closer to me, gliding with a feline grace—a clever predator that would entice rather than all out attacking.

 

“Sit,” he purred, and as if he were the master of my personal space, motioned to the stool which Ron had been only moments before.

 

I complied, which galled me, but at the same time, I thought it better to be sitting for the dramatics about to come.

 

It was as he was composing himself in a grand manner, his body straightening, his shoulders squaring, his grey eyes studying, that I realized he was dressed very much as he had been the night we met in the alley off the Piazza Duomo in Trento. However, his clothes were no longer ragged or stained by sweat, the clothing was pristinely kempt, and I found myself looking at Lucius Malfoy as he should have been if he had not offended Edwinia Glump.

 

The Pureblood aristocrat.

 

“You are looking much healed,” was his first comment, standing just on the other side of the kitchen counter, at an angle to my left, his face just catching the lights.

 

The comment was an attempt at civility.

 

I was still holding my bottle of water, but slowly released it, the plastic snapping back into place. He ignored the sound as I rested my forearms on the counter, waiting for whatever it was that he would ‘propose.’

 

Actually, I was at a loss as to why I would allow him to ‘propose’ anything. Had I somehow come to terms, on a deep and profound level, that if I were to give in, I might break my own brand of curse—the bad luck that felt like a perpetual storm cloud hanging over my head?

 

“Are you feeling much better?”

 

There was no true concern in his voice. As I said, an attempt at civility…

 

“Physically,” I grumbled. I was not about to start speaking aloud about how ‘unwell’ I truly felt inside, not to Lucius Malfoy who would slip his long, pale fingers into any crack of my soul and pry something open or free to exploit the weakness.

 

Lucius nodded, finding my answer acceptable.

 

“I shall cut to the chase, then,” he began, his words becoming less perfunctory, and more personal. “I would ask that you would accompany me on a holiday, in hopes that we would come to a compromise.”

 

I blinked at him, but he did not pause.

 

“I need this curse broken, and you are the only one who can help me break it. I will not stop following you, if you should refuse. I will become your personal poltergeist, if need be.”

 

He was threatening me, the bastard!

 

“However, we can go about this like civilized human beings, Miss Granger. You break my curse; I will never darken your door. It will take time, I realize, and I will compensate you, if you wish. Thus, I propose this ‘holiday,’ which could be pleasant, if you wish it to be.”

 

Again, I blinked at him.

 

The man had no idea what ‘falling in love’ entailed, nor did I, but I would have liked to think that I knew a bit more about it all than he.

 

“What say you, Miss Granger…Hermione?”

 

Lucius’ face, the well-constructed mask of haughty beauty, threatened to melt into a mask of hesitation and desperation. In those grey eyes, I could see his pleading, as if he had lost that much control over himself to allow me to peek into those orbs. Eyes are the windows of the soul; at least, it was so with Lucius Malfoy when the desperation of his fear broke through the cold ice of his eyes.

 

He could not live a life without being able to touch, see, or hear another wizard. He hated the fact he had lived so long, so ignorant of anything other than the world provided for him by the accident of his birth. He should have tried harder.

 

Lucius Malfoy regretted.

 

I regretted.

 

I was Muggleborn, ignorant of the Wizarding world until the age of eleven, by the accident of my birth…

 

“Terms? Specifics?” I prompted, but kept my face smooth. It would be unfair to anyone, even Lucius Malfoy, to lead someone to false hope. Honestly, I was still resistant.

 

He nodded, more to himself, than to me. I was speaking his language by mentioning ‘terms.’

 

“A week holiday, touring the wilderness of North America,” was his first ‘specific.’

 

Did he mean ‘camping?’ Everything associated with the idea of ‘camping’ brought back memories of Harry, Ron, and myself, searching for Horcruxes. Granted, it had been a stressful time, but there were simple pleasures during the experience. I suppose the one thing I found I enjoyed about ‘camping’ was the closeness I felt to my friends, even after Ron left Harry and I.

 

Living at Hogwarts could never compare with having to share quarters with two teenage boys, and I, ever the scholar, learned quite a bit.

 

There was also the strange, primitive comfort of being in nature itself, granted, the wildest place we had stayed during that time had been in the Forest of Dean, and not the true wilderness of North America.

 

“Do you enjoy hiking?”

 

The question actually made my smooth face crinkle into a soft smile. I had not been looking at him, but at the counter and the half empty water bottle near my hands.

 

I did enjoy hiking. I loved hiking the Dolomites, when the mood struck me. Even in the summer months, I would hike high above the tree line, through old drifts of snow and glacier, taking my rest at a high mountain ‘rifugio’ for a night before hiking on or back down. The last trip had been to Rifugio Silvio Dorigoni, where I glutted myself after a day’s hike on white meat balls in wine sauce and had gone to bed with a stupidly wide smile, feet sore, bones aching.

 

“I do,” I answered, moving my eyes to the pale man, acknowledging his presence in my flat.

 

He nodded again.

 

I supposed he also liked nature and hiking, though, by the look of him in all his regalia, it was hard to imagine Lucius Malfoy trekking over rough terrain, inhaling mountain air for the sheer joy of breathing, as I often did.

 

I hiked to clear my head, to sort my thoughts, to give myself a break from the life I had made for myself, which had not been so bad, but demanding of every mental faculty.

 

“Will you go with me, Miss…Hermione? Aid me?”

 

These questions brought me out of my reminiscing and longing to be away from London and the terrible facts about my luck as of late.

 

Touring North America with Lucius Malfoy, as if we were, in the very least, friends?

 

Ridiculous, was my first thought.

 

Then again, what did I have to lose? I had only to lose my home, my familiar, before hitting rock bottom, I supposed. I was still deciding how close I had been to losing my life with being struck by an automobile.

 

Hadn’t Lucius Malfoy saved my life?

 

Damn.

 

“If I find the ‘holiday’ unsuitable, I will leave you,” I began with my conditions. “And if I leave, you will not follow.”

 

I had to find a way to learn more about Lucius’ ‘tracking spell,’ and be able to counteract it. Perhaps a ‘holiday’ would allow for that.

 

“I will agree to that, and I counter with the condition that you will at least try…”

 

“To fall in love with you?”

 

He hesitated, his mouth tightening in displeasure. Lucius nodded.

 

“You will have a good deal of convincing to do, sir.”

 

That he did. You cannot take the bastard out of Lucius Malfoy and expect him to be much of a man.

 

I sighed, Lucius like a statue of ebony and ivory, waiting for me to speak again after a silence fell total about us.

 

“When do you propose we go on this ‘holiday?’”


	8. VIII

**VIII**

 

 

 

Two weeks later, I was standing on the shore of Swiftcurrent Lake in Glacier National Park, Montana, trying to keep a strand of hair that had fallen from my ponytail out of my eyes. I was enamoured by the towering Mount Grinnell that rose up from the lake like a grey stone sentinel, but the vastness of the sky, the freshness of the air—I had a sense of foreboding.

 

Why was I here?

 

Lucius was speaking to someone up the bank from the shore nearer to the hotel above, the rustic Alpine designed inn where we had spent the first night of our holiday.

 

We were to hike the five and half mile trail called Grinnell Glacier trail that day, and I had packed and shrunken a modest arsenal of supplies into a small pack on my back over my pale blue fleece pull over. I was outfitted for a hike in a comfortable pair of denims, thick socks, and hiking boots, a rain jacket tied about my waist.

 

As for Lucius, an outsider might think he was some tourist who had a working knowledge of the outdoors in his heavy Muggle hiking boots, dark denims, black jumper over a longer, skin tight black sleeveless shirt, his long hair pulled back from his face loosely, a small pack on his back, spinning a walking stick cum old straight branch in his hand.

 

He was speaking to a ranger, I supposed, and was nodding as the Muggle spoke.

 

It was morning, and the breeze off the lake was cold. The hike was in a lower altitude, medium difficulty partly due to its length, and I was anxious to begin. I had stretched my limbs in preparation, feeling my wand handle jab into my ribs where it had slipped up from the belt on my denims in a Disillusioned holster at my right side.

 

The Muggles warned us of bears, of leaving the path, all the things any logical person would find to be a warning, but I suppose I felt a bit arrogant with a wand on my belt. If a situation became difficult or dangerous, I could Apparate, whereas Muggles would spend a good deal of time and vitality trying to emerge from the wilderness for help.

 

“Let us begin.”

 

Lucius had moved to my side, finally, and together, we began walking around the lake toward the trailhead on the north point of the lake to begin the trek along the other side.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He had stolen a tent from somewhere, he told me the night before in our suite overlooking Swiftcurrent Lake.

 

It was a two bedroom suite, he giving me the king sized bed, while he slept in the small full sized bed, never once bothering me, sneaking up on me, or insinuating himself in any way.

 

I asked him if he intended that we literally camp out in the backcountry, and he only grinned.

 

“My father, though the true aristocrat, was taken by Montana, or least, the mountains of Montana, in his youth. I never could discern how he had originally come to this place, but he loved it enough to buy an old house north of Missoula and spend much time, even in my childhood, there.

 

There was something about this place, I heard him say one time. It was not Alaska, he said, which drew people all around the world to bask in its wild beautiful danger. Montana was just civilised enough for him.”

 

We were sitting in the common living area, having had a fair dinner in the dinning room of the hotel. The near full moon reflected off the lake outside the window, and I, never one to overlook such a vista, kept my eyes upon it.

 

“Did he bring you here?”

 

Lucius chuckled, and I could see his murky reflection in the window. He too was staring at the moonlit waters.

 

“Only once, when I was a teenager. I hated it.”

 

“And now?”

 

I saw him shrug in the reflection of the window. “I appreciate the beauty of this place, the quiet. It is so far removed from anything I know, and that, in itself has appeal.”

 

But I was with him, the last symbol of his life as a wizard, and we had a rocky past, albeit not so strong as what I had with his son or his former master.

 

Thinking of his former master, I glanced at Lucius who was deep in memory. I could not recall if I had noticed the scar on his left forearm. I tried to recall the night in my flat at Trento after he bathed, but could not remember if I had seen or not seen his arm or any other part of his bare skin. I knew that after the fall of Tom Riddle, the Dark Mark had faded on the surviving Death Eaters to a faint brand.

 

I shivered, falling into memories of my own.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For early May, the elevation did nothing to temper the air with warmth. We had walked approximately two miles up into the sparse trees along the base of the mountains, and we had not spoken.

 

Lucius walked leisurely, which translated to me trying to catch up. His stride was much longer than my own. We were in no hurry, and I did not mind that I would lose sight of him at times around a copse trees, only to spot his pale hair again ahead of me.

 

Near noon, we stopped, after climbing up a particularly steep incline where the trees gave way to grey rock. I fetched my water bottle from my pack, letting the small bag fall to the gravel track that was becoming more rugged the further we hiked.

 

He sat next to me on a low boulder, the mountain rising up like a spike from the earth at our backs, the land, and the lake stretching out before us from our vantage point.

 

When he did not speak, I could almost imagine that I did ‘like’ him, and after I drank my fill from the bottle, I passed it to him, without thinking.

 

His hand touched mine, and I shivered before I thought much of my mindless action. Glancing to him, he nodded to me, taking the bottle to lift it to his lips. I saw that he hesitated, but it was for only a split second, before drinking after me, gulping down the water, but not emptying the bottle.

 

Had he thought he would germs ala Mudblood? He had kissed me, twice.

 

He thanked me for the water, passing it back to me to cap the bottle and stuff it in my pack again.

 

The exchange was benign, but it was on my mind for the next mile.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Grinnell Glacier, or what remained of it, was slightly disappointing. We had met other hikers coming back, obviously having started out earlier than we had.

 

We stood above the steep drop down to what was now a lake, and stared at it for a long while. The wind whipped about us, nearly knocking us back, and in the air, there was a memory of what was once a majestic testament to the will of Mother Nature.

 

“It is like realising that the Mona Lisa is only a small portrait, thirty by twenty-one inches of condensed sublimity, surrounded by hundreds of tourists and admirers trying to stand just before her, to be held in her gaze…” I whispered over the wind.

 

He stared at me as if I had said something quite profound. Perhaps I had…

 

“It makes me sad,” I finished, turning my back to the once glacier.

 

“It makes me angry,” he admitted.

 

I smirked. “Because we came too late?”

 

“In part.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Something happened after that moment, it continued to happen as I began back down the trail. I felt as if I could tolerate Lucius Malfoy.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

We opted to take another trail back, which would take us the rest of the day, and possible have us finding a place to pitch camp. We looped around Lake Josephine to the east, finding the trail not so rocky or sparse. The trees that rose up around us made me think that we were truly, for once, in a forest.

 

It was awing.

 

Perhaps my perception had changed somehow, for there seemed to be more colours, the air fragrant, warmer.

 

In a deep cut vale above a stream, we sat down to eat a packed meal, sitting on a mossy rock with out boots hanging over the edge and the plummet to the water below. We sat close together in a beam of sunlight filtering through pines.

 

The silence was comfortable, and I tried not to analyze how it could be so.

 

When we began hiking again, no longer caring where we went or if we should head back to the hotel, we walked side by side, talking.

 

I felt high. The elevation, or the clean air, had made me high.

 

I was getting to know Lucius Malfoy, something I never would have imagined as long as I lived. When he was not being a complete bastard, I found he was quite loquacious about matters that we found mutually interesting.

 

Things I learned about Lucius Malfoy: as an adult, he did enjoy nature, he even liked to fish though to look at him, you would never imagine such a thing. He enjoyed art, and since his sequester from the magical world, he had taken the time to see great Muggle masterpieces, as a Muggle would see them. He enjoyed music, and lamented the loss of his gramophone still in the Manor in Wiltshire. He enjoyed doing the puzzles in the Prophet, and would save them as clippings, or he had, when he lived as Lucius Malfoy in his Palladian Manor. He enjoyed reading and making up research projects to further inform him of the customs of ancient or primitive cultures. He enjoyed some Muggle conventions, discovering the cinema during his curse. He enjoyed the quiet, contemplative moments, but most of all, he enjoyed the company of a person as well versed as he in matters he found important or pertinent to existence.

 

At the moment, I was this person, though he mentioned Severus Snape several times in passing.

 

I learned that he hated several things as well, and was torn between his biases and his new discoveries.

 

I learned Lucius Malfoy was a man.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Falling in love, I have read, can occur unexpectedly. I have also read, it can occur gradually.

 

As for me, I was gradually beginning to see.

 

Night fell, and we found a clearing far enough off the trail not to be noticed by Muggles, and Lucius took the initiative to pitch the tent with his wand. The tent he had ‘stolen’ was very much like the tent I knew Arthur Weasley had borrowed for the Quidditch World Cup with a few differences. The inside was far more luxurious, and far warmer.

 

However, despite the luxury of a built in central stove, a small food preparation area and a simple toilet, there was one thing about the tent that made me remember Lucius Malfoy had intended to use our ‘holiday’ for something more than enjoying nature.

 

There was only one bed.

 

The softness of my face that had made me smile during the hike, hardened into a scowl.

 

Lucius acted as though the sleeping arrangements were of no real concern and went about, pulling Stasis fresh food from his bag for an extraordinary dinner. He continued our conversation about the interesting geology of the park around us, nonplussed.

 

I sat near the stove on an armchair that smelled slightly of mothballs, rubbing my feet after removing my boots.

 

“What will you do after the curse is broken?” I asked, speaking over his amused comment about the Native American belief that the mountains of the park were the ‘backbone of the world.’

 

He had been placing dinner rolls on the camp plates as I asked this question, and paused to glance up at me.

 

I wondered then, without conversation, and the ease of which it came, if I were seeing the true Lucius Malfoy, unhindered by thoughts of the curse, thoughts of how to break the curse, and the years he spent removed from the world he was born into.

 

Just as my face had hardened, so did his.

 

“Would you believe me if I said, I had not thought so far ahead?”

 

“No.”

 

He grinned, and the face, the man I had known as Lucius Malfoy, the ex-Death Eater, was before me.

 

“You are asking what incentive you might have by ‘falling in love’ with me?”

 

He passed me a plate of cold pheasant, cranberries, asparagus with what looked and smelled to be a ginger sauce, and a buttery dinner roll. My mother would have smiled at such a balanced dinner. Then, passing me a fork, he leaned away from me, settling back into the second armchair which was only a foot away from my own before the open door of the fire in the stove, casting flickering, warm light over both our faces.

 

“Why not?” I sighed finally, resting my plate on my knee.

 

My answer/question seemed to rankle his façade, and he began eating, as if to give him time to answer his own question. I took the time to eat as well, thinking of nothing but that the food was good, better than what I had eaten in the hotel dinning room.

 

“I am not cruel.”

 

I choked on my loose cranberries and cast about for something to drink.

 

Lucius passed me a glass, something he must have extracted from his bag, as well as the white wine inside the globe.

 

How insane to have cold pheasant and wine in the middle of the Montana wilderness.

 

I drank and the choking and coughing subsided.

 

“…only to those you hate…” I rasped.

 

“That was not what I meant,” he answered smoothly, a glass in his hand as well, poised before his sculpted, pale lips.

 

I blinked at him, and resumed eating my tart cranberries.

 

“I never laid a hand on a woman, no matter what you might think of me. Striking a woman is a cowardly act.”

 

True.

 

“I will be kind, gentle… I will spoil you, if you allow me. Give into every indulgence.

 

I will be your slave.”

 

I dropped my fork onto the carpets of the tent, and nearly allowed my plate to slip from my knees.

 

He said these things so casually that the manner in which he said these words was profane. Yet, they were not words that I associated with love. They were still words of desperation, loneliness.

 

I had enough to eat, and as picking up a silent cue, Lucius took my plate from my knees, placing it on the floor on the other side of his chair where he had drawn the wine glasses. When he finished, he mimicked the motion, but drew the frosted bottle of wine and refilled my glass perilously perched on the arm of the chair.

 

I would have thought his words, almost an admission, would cause him to draw in on himself, but, it _was_ Lucius Malfoy—so proud that even his desperation kept him from slipping away.

 

“I would gladly have you on my arm, in my home, in my bed, if you wanted it to be so. Those are incentives, are they not?”

 

Stunned, that was the closest emotion I felt, but I knew, these words were not enough.

 

I sat back in my chair, picking up my wine and drinking deeply, the bittersweet taste perfectly blending with the food on my palate.

 

“What is love to you, Lucius?” I asked before licking wine from my lips, the heat from the stove only adding to the growing heat of alcohol suffusing my skin.

 

He considered my words seriously.

 

“How should I know?” he chuckled, suddenly. “I think it might be something so wonderful and so terrible that tomes upon tomes have been written upon it. It is a curiosity, focused on one person…”

 

His laughter died away, and again, he considered.

 

“I know what I would like it to be,” he whispered into his wineglass.

 

“And what is that?”

 

My glass was empty, and when he finished his sip, he automatically refilled it. The man was trying to get me drunk, but to be honest I really did not care. The fewer inhibitions, the fewer qualms I would have with ultimately sharing the only bed in the tent.

 

“A never ending passion. A holiday that lasts and lasts. A fascination that never loses its charm. An orgasm that does not leave me exhausted…”

 

Yes, I was quickly becoming drunk, because I was beginning to fall in love with him—that is, as long as he remained soft spoken and honest with me.

 

“Do you love me?”

 

Lucius’ eyes flashed to mine, and he stared at me, stricken by my very direct question. Slowly, in the warm flicker of firelight, his face softened.

 

He was handsome; I could not deny this much. No matter how many years there were between us, Lucius Malfoy had an eternal beauty reserved for the few. Lucius was a Norse god, strength in his face and body, pale, yes, but not ice though he surely had affinity for such a thing. This was a man whose airs brought disdain in most people, but under it all, he was flesh and blood, ice and fire, a hero of an ancient epic.

 

Oh, how our lives would make for a good bard song.

 

And for a fragile moment, I could see myself at his side, his warrior queen with my strange amber eyes and wild chestnut curls.

 

Then, the moment passed.

 

“I barely know you, but…” he trailed, his eyes turning to the fire, the grey becoming mercury. “But, your strength is…”

 

He did not finish, but leaned forward to place his elbows on the knees of his dark denims and press the stem of his glass between his fingers. This posture was familiar, a brooding, casual posture, that seemed as natural to him as his maniacal pacing when agitated.

 

I knew this man.

 

I finished my wine, and Lucius did not move to refill my glass, so lost in the light of the fire and his own ruminations.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The sleeping arrangement did not seem to matter at all by the time he laid down next to me on the bed. We had just enough wine to make us sleepy and carefree.

 

Lucius lay on my right side, on his back, while I had naturally laid down on my right side, facing him. I was not used to sharing my bed with the exception of Crookshanks who usually slept on my pillow behind my head. However, the night’s cold had permeated the Charmed tent, and the warmth Lucius provided, nearly against me, was soothing.

 

Lazily, he moved to pull a thick blanket over us both, and I curled my socked feet together against his shin. He did not seem to mind.

 

I slept so deeply, so comfortably, that when I woke hours later; I was not surprised that we had drifted closer together in the centre of the bed, in a comfortable embrace. What woke me was a tickling at my nose, as I had begun inhaling the tips of his hair, which had fallen loose and tangled about his shoulders as he lay on his left side, facing me. He had his right arm draped about my waist, his left curled under the pillow, the bottom his arm acting as a type of pillow for me. My face was in his chest, and his chin rested atop my head.

 

It was intimate, and more importantly, it was warm.

 

He smelled of faint sweat from our hiking, and the trees. I had dreamt of something to do with those pines and hearty hardwoods.

 

When I pulled away, he made a soft sound of protest, but did not wake. I took the time to study him in the grey pre-dawn light that filtered in through cracks in the tent walls.

 

In sleep, he looked like a boy on the cusp of manhood, and I knew then that my thought about his agelessness was correct. Even though I could see the marks of age on his face, they were so superficial, so movable, that I tried to believe he was old enough to be my father.

 

I failed.

 

This man was made of finer stuff than mere flesh and bone, and I felt a jolt of envy course through me. I could hate him so easily, but as easily as I could love him? I wondered.

 

Slipping into my boots and finding my fleece pullover, I moved to stoke the fire, use the small toilet, and wash my face. I was not hungry, but knew I would be. If I wanted anything, it was coffee, which I had in my pack, a shrunken pot I could place on the stove to perk strong, dark coffee.

 

Before I began this ritual, I decided to step outside and inhale the clean morning air to clear my head of any conflicting thoughts that would eventually come about the man still sleeping in the bed.

 

The clearing was foggy, but high on the east faces of the mountains, I could see the pink dawn stretching down to where I stood. The air was icy, and there was frost on the ground, so heavy that it beat down the high grasses and killing some of the more willful wildflowers in early May. The white plumed beargrass was untouched by the killing cold and swayed in a gentle wind around the deceptively small tent.

 

I began walking from the tent, ready to throw out my arms and welcome the day, so smitten with the cleanliness of the air and the silence that I felt as if I could burst into a song, which had no real words to it at all.

 

I had learned to love the vastness and the tranquility. Could I learn to love other things as well?

 

Of course, it was at this point, too far away from the tent to run to safety, that I realised that through the fog, I had come upon a large animal sniffing about the edge of the clearing.

 

What good luck I had, no matter how small, had run out as I faced down a grizzly bear almost as large as the black cab that nearly killed me in Islington.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

There are steps one logically would take to preserve their lives instead of panicking and hastening their deaths. I always thought I was logical, but logic failed me.

 

The grizzly, the first I had seen outside of a zoo, was like a massive boulder with thick, brown fur, a head as large as one of Fluffy, the Three-headed dog’s, and eyes that were oddly similar to my own shade of amber. The bear raised its head and sniffed the air, and then, found me, staring, frozen, back at it.

 

As far as I knew, the bear was only passing through the clearing, our tent not in the way of its natural track. I had walked just far enough away from the tent to encroach upon the animal, and now, I was being considered by an animal with no human logic.

 

I did not run, which was a good thing, but I did not move at all, which _was_ probably not a good thing.

 

I have only ever been paralyzed by fear a few times in my life and that had resulted in pain. I prayed to whatever god, that this time would not end with more pain.

 

“Back away slowly,” a voice whispered over the clearing, and I knew Lucius had come, standing closer to the tent, apparently awakened when the loss of my warmth in the bed was not enough to keep him sedated. “Do not make any sudden movements, crouch slowly, make yourself small…submissive.”

 

I complied, my eyes moving to the huge paws and claws of the beast. The bear grumbled, and turned its body toward me.

 

“Slow steps backward,” he whispered just loud enough not to arouse more attention from the bear.

 

What terrible, fickle luck. No matter how slowly I began to move, or how carefully, the fates took another swipe at me as the bear reared up on its hind legs and roared as if I had somehow offended its honour.

 

Was this normal behaviour of a bear, or was I so destined for misery?

 

I wanted to scream, not from fear, which was dissolving, but in sheer frustration. I did not need to be eaten by a large, wild animal. I did not need to soak my clothes with more blood or feel more pain.

 

I was a witch, for Merlin’s sake!

 

The bear charged, and Lucius shouted, his boots pounding on the ground, but I was faster.

 

My wand flew into my hand, and within a second, the bear was blown back in a flash of light and sound that boomed through the clearing like an exploding bomb.

 

Take that, fate!

 

The bear, the poor beast, ran away, lumbering into the trees so frightened that several small saplings were uprooted in the animal’s haste to flee.

 

Before I could congratulate myself, I was stumbling as Lucius collided with me, his boots slipping in the frosty grasses beginning to thaw as dawn’s rosy fingers touched the clearing. I was gasping for breath, body trembling from my anger, that I whirled on him and had my wand tip between his eyes.

 

He too was gasping, having run, when he could have Apparated, to try to save me.

 

“What the hell do you think you were going to do?” I screamed at him, my anger like boiling water from a natural hot spring, melting the frost of whatever sleep I had remaining on the edges of my mind. “Push me out of the way to wrestle a fucking bear?”

 

Lucius’ pale face flushed, and before he could answer, he had bent over, his hands on his knees to catch his breath.

 

I lowered my ‘death stick,’ but kept my anger pointed at him, yet turned to look at the edge of the trees where the bear had fled.

 

“What will it be next? A snake bite? Me falling off a fucking cliff? Bring it on, goddamn you!” I screamed to the forest and mountains, my voice echoing in the vast space of Glacier National Park, Montana, United States of America.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My anger abated, as we struck camp, not bothering with breakfast or coffee. It was as I was shrinking the tent to slip into my pack that I began telling Lucius all about my luck.

 

I did not really take a breath until we had hiked far away from the clearing and were traversing a path between trees in the still coolness of morning. Even when we sat down to finally take some breakfast, I did not stop.

 

He listened, nodding or frowning, thoughtful at my words.

 

“And now a bear…” I finished with a sigh, passing him a metal camp cup of strong coffee as we sat in the morning sun after leaving the forest for wider, sunlit valleys.

 

I told him everything, including the device I found on the twenty-third shelf.

 

“I have never heard of such a thing,” he said first, still thinking about the ball. “Of course, that is not surprising,” he added.

 

I felt as if I were sitting in the sun, drinking coffee with an old friend. Lucius Malfoy could be changeable.

 

“Are you sure this is not a case of self-fulfilling prophecy?”

 

I arched an eyebrow as I met his eyes over the rim of my steaming cup. To even suggest anything about prophecies seemed too…

 

He smirked and looked away.

 

“Not as dubious as a hag casting a curse on a person so they suddenly do not exist in their world, I suppose,” he muttered. “And,” he sighed, “you think our meeting, your sudden role in my curse, may have been brought about by this ‘ball?’”

 

I shrugged. It had weighed heavily on my mind. A curse of my own…

 

“Shall we divert our holiday?”

 

“What?”

 

He grinned, and I could almost hear the gears turning in his head. This was a man who would not pass up an adventure. Were all men like this?

 

“Let’s break in to the Department of Mysteries, for old time’s sake.”

 

I cursed, having spilt hot coffee into the crotch of my denims.


	9. IX

**IX**

 

 

 

Since the War, security measures surrounding the Ministry have maintained its paranoid sort of tightness. Now, there was not just a security desk where wands were weighed and recorded, but Aurors who stood guard just at the lifts who scanned for official identification cards to be displayed over ones robes when passing the security desk. There were also unobtrusive scanning devices, like Muggle metal detectors, which no one knew what the purpose truly was.

 

The Department of Mysteries had new safeguards in place, even more unobtrusive, but known to an Unspeakable as myself.

 

Getting Lucius past these safeguards would not be a problem, the man, in theory, did not exist. However, I did, and I was suspended from my job. My review was not slated until the last day of May, and when Lucius suggested we ‘visit’ the D of M, it was only toward the end of the second week of May.

 

He had promised our ‘holiday’ would last only a week, and we had only begun the third day when he suggested the ‘break in.’

 

I had inadvertently peaked his curiosity, which filled me with such reluctance that I cursed myself in mantras inside my head.

 

We left Montana that night for London, and I will omit the mundane details of the journey.

 

“Write a letter to your department head,” he said, sitting in my Islington flat, his bare feet propped up on the ottoman in the living room, glancing toward the dark window overlooking the street below. “Ask for a review sooner than the end of the month.”

 

I had been feeding Crooks, wishing for a bath to wash off the filth I had not noticed all the while we were in Montana. The difference between the air of Montana and London was obvious, and I felt as if my lungs had contracted and grown too small in my chest upon returning home.

 

“So you could sneak about while I had a legitimate reason for being in the Ministry?”

 

“Why not? Unless you can think of a way to get us both inside without being noticed. I have only ever been into the sublevels a few times, and never into some ‘junk cupboard,’” he reminded me.

 

“And if we do get in, find the device, what then?” I asked with a growl while Crooks sniffed my boots and pointed his flat face up at me as if to ask ‘where the hell have you been, human, and why do you reek of the greater outdoors?’

 

Lucius turned to regard me, he too seemingly out of sorts since returning from ‘Big Sky Country’ to London. “Then, we take a look at it, puzzle it out, or destroy it, or nothing. To be honest, I have no desire to make my luck worse than it has been for the past five years.”

 

Which included finding me, I wanted to add, but immediately, he realised he had said something only slightly offensive.

 

“Besides, our holiday is not over.”

 

Men.

 

I could be thrown into Azkaban for a very long time. I could lose what little I had left. I could also fall in love with this man who, at times, seemed all too giddy to flaunt himself in the face of fate.

 

What did he have to lose? What did I have to lose?

 

Gods, I was insane. Adventuring into the wilds of North America had been one thing, breaking into the Department of Mysteries, again, was another.

 

“I leave the planning to you,” I sighed, leaning into the counter.

 

“You provide information on the ‘obstacles,’ and I will have us in the Department of Mysteries by night after next, my dear.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Lucius, after five years, had turned into an expert thief. Then again, with being able to not see danger and danger not see him, I supposed it was all too easy for him to loot Borgin and Burkes for a few things he claimed we needed to infiltrate the D of M.

 

“Like a kid in a candy store,” I whispered to him as he fell in step beside me as we passed Quality Quidditch.

 

“Where did that phrase come from?” he asked, still smiling with his arms full of miscellaneous things, all appearing quite wicked and dangerous unto themselves.

 

I did not know, but thinking of a candy store made me want to tell him about meeting his son in Honeydukes. I held my tongue.

 

“Half of these things _were_ mine,” Lucius grumbled as we moved toward an Apparation point. “I sold them long ago, and yet, there they were, and gathering dust on the shelves with price tags that meant no one would be able to afford them. Borgin’s greed equals only in his strange tastes.”

 

I said nothing, not really knowing how to respond when I motioned for Lucius to wait before we were to use the Apparation point as an elderly wizard with a parcel from Flourish and Blotts was taking his time on remembering where he lived. Lucius, of course, could see no one, and no one saw him, expect me, and I had to grasp the sleeve of his Muggle jumper, the same jumper he wore in Montana, to keep him from overrunning the old man. I suppose the gesture seemed strange, but Lucius only sighed, obviously figuring out why I had a hold of his sleeve.

 

We were back in my flat moments later, which became ‘headquarters’ for our next act of illegality.

 

Lucius had left me the night before, going somewhere else to sleep, I imagined. I did not ask questions.

 

We had stayed up late into the night; literally sketching out plans on the backs of old official department memos I foolishly kept. I had drawn the floor plans of the D of M, a heavily guarded secret that if divulged, could land me Azkaban or dramatically empty my vault at Gringotts in fines.

 

Lucius’ face had turned into a mask of pure excitement as I pointed out every room. Part of the mystery of the Department of Mysteries was the floor plan which did change, but in cycles. It took me a week of working in the sublevel to learn the pattern.

 

I sketched out the points where the ‘obstacles’ could be found. The magical signature detector that recorded every person who entered and exited the level, the most difficult obstacle… There was also a thermal device in the ‘Carousel Room,’ that would activate the spinning of the doors leading to the various rooms, one that could easily be bypassed. There were the complicated wards on some rooms, all of which could be bypassed on the way to the ‘junk cupboard’ off the Time Room. At all costs, we had to avoid the Brain Room and the Planet Room. Going into those rooms, whether noticed or not, would change the room—the planets would move, the brains would notice our presence.

 

“And this room?” he had asked.

 

“My department.”

 

He stared at me, realising all too quickly I worked in the one room his former master and most other people could not or would never enter. The Ever-Locked Room aka the Love Room…

 

Lucius wanted to comment on this fact, and even opened his mouth to speak, but he did not, his lips curling into a strangely satisfied smile as he turned his eyes back to the rough schematics I had drawn out on the sheaves of paper on the ottoman.

 

Hours later, he was gently unloading his arms of his stolen goods onto the same ottoman, sitting down in the armchair to mentally catalogue what it was before him.

 

I lifted myself to perch on the stool before the counter, shrugging out of my light coat, drawing my wand from the pocket to let it balance on my knees. With so many ‘dark’ artefacts, I thought it best to keep my wand handy.

 

“Talismans, mostly,” he commented, “all with various uses. This,” he said, gently lifting what appeared to be a mail shirt, but was lighter than steel, “…is what will get you past any device that would record magical signatures.”

 

He tossed it at me, and I gasped as my hand flashed out to catch the shirt, which was as light as silk. It was indeed a mail shirt, but so delicate that it must have been of goblin manufacture.

 

“Only a shirt?”

 

Lucius chuckled. “It is magic, Miss…Hermione, never judge anything magical by its appearance.”

 

I lowered the shirt to gaze at Lucius, slightly amazed, as he lifted another artefact, this time a pendant on a thin silver chain.

 

“This, I will wear, on the off chance that my body heat might be detected. That is something of which I have no knowledge. No one can see me, but your vampire friend mentioned my heat.”

 

James indeed had.

 

I only saw that the pendant was long and sharp, like an animal tooth, but already, Lucius was placing the chain over his head, pulling his hair free so that if fluttered in the air like downy strands of matching silver. In the sunlight coming through the windows, his hair was too lovely for man.

 

“And the rest?” I asked, inclining my head to three more objects, all of which looked to be weapons of supernatural design.

 

“Protection, on the off chance…” he trailed, eyeing a particularly wicked looking stiletto. “If we have to fight our way out.”

 

I frowned.

 

“Nothing to render me invisible?” I asked with a nervous laugh.

 

Lucius smirked and turned his eyes away from the ‘weapons.’ “Unfortunately, and technically, no.”

 

My frown deepened. “And how do I enter, unnoticed?”

 

He leaned back in the armchair, swiveling his handsome, grinning face to me. Somehow, I knew he had put quite a bit of thought into his answer.

 

“Under my cloak.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Of all the stupid ideas!” I hissed.

 

“Can they see you?” he hissed back.

 

I could not really tell, but moved my hand to push at his cloak to peek out into the Ministry Atrium.

 

The end of the workday had come and gone, and now only a few late stragglers were heading for the Floos in the Atrium. No one seemed to see me, which was fantastic, in my opinion. I was sure that if they did see me, they would stop in their tracks and gawk. I know I would have if I were confronted with what was surely a comical sight.

 

I was clinging to Lucius Malfoy like a spider monkey, and he would appear, if seen, to be a man with a large hump on his back under his cloak.

 

“This is ridiculous!” I hissed, not veiling my mortification.

 

I did not weigh too much, it seemed, for Lucius did not complain and held tight to my thighs as he began to walk down the length of the Atrium to the security desk.

 

Whatever doubts I had of being seen melted away as we passed the security desk without being stopped and came to the lifts, the eyes of the Aurors passing over us, through us, as if we did not exist.

 

Lucius was a lucky bastard, he could not see them, and for that, he did not tremble as I did, my arms draped about his neck, my legs wrapped about his slim waist. I could just see over his shoulder where his cloak was pushed up to allow me to breathe, and I saw that he headed for a lift that was emptying of several members of the Department of Magical Cooperation.

 

Once on the lift, Lucius grunted and shifted me on his back. Apparently, I _was_ becoming heavy. He proceeded to punch the button for the Ninth level, and soon I was gasping as the lift plummeted and twisted downward, the shifting sending our combined weights into the lift wall.

 

I used the momentum to slide off his back.

 

Lucius turned to protest, but I shook my head.

 

“No one will see me. The Unspeakables always leave two hours before now… Most cannot wait to get out into the fresh air,” I muttered.

 

As the lift settled and the grate opened, we both turned to stare into the darkness that was the entrance of the Department of Mysteries.

 

I, in a plain pair of denims with a black jumper over the mail shirt, hair pulled back in a tie, was the first to step into the darkness, my hand automatically moving to my hip and the wand in a belt holster. Lucius stepped out beside me, his hands moving to the pendant under his own jumper. Besides the cape, he was a picture of Muggle casual wear.

 

It occurred to me, a nervous thought, that Lucius looked good even in his tattered clothes in Trento.

 

Nervous thought indeed.

 

“Why are we doing this again?” I asked, glancing up at him, he who stood just at my right side, so close that his hand brushed my own.

 

He grinned, the light from the lift casting his features in high relief. “This is part of our holiday, my dear. A bit of fun?”

 

I snorted. Fun, my arse. This was dangerous!

 

“No ulterior motive? No long lingering desire to plunder the mystery of this place for the sake of sating a decade old curiosity?”

 

He chuckled as we began to walk, his fingers finding my own, hooking my ring and smallest finger into his.

 

“Curiosity, most definitely, but nothing like what you said. Ulterior motive? Perhaps, but nothing malignant like those motives I felt I had to fulfill years ago. That time is over.”

 

The corridor from the lift ended just as the echo of his words faded, and we stood in the ‘Carousel Room.’

 

This was the first test.

 

“The thermal sensors would have activated by now,” I informed him, and just as I said this, the room began to spin around us, and Lucius’ hand moved from linking our fingers to linking our hands.

 

“It’s alright,” I reassured him, his right hand going, undoubtedly, to the pendant. “My thermal signature, which cannot be traced. If someone were to look at the records, they might think it was the night watchman, who will be coming into the room in approximately two hours…”

 

I had mentioned this fact the night before. Two heat signatures would look suspicious, especially at this particular time of day, but one would not be unusual…

 

“Besides, I know the puzzle of this room,” I said through a grin, and pulled on Lucius’ hand to a door to our far left.

 

The plan was this: we go through the Hall of Prophecy and into the Time Room, bypassing the Brain and Planet Rooms and to the cupboard door in a dusty corner near the bell jar. We would leave the same way, not bothering to use the Floos in the offices, but going up a disused stair into the Atrium that was Charmed for ascension only. From there, we could use the Floo or the Visitor’s entrance to leave the Ministry.

 

If we could not leave by this means, we would use the Floo in the office next to mine, an empty office, and worry about the Floo travel records later, if there were any at all. I was still dubious about the mail shirt that was cool against my skin under my jumper, but I had to trust, if I was going to go along with this adventure.

 

“What do you plan to do when we find this ‘Absolute destiny’ ball?” Lucius asked while we walked, still hand in hand, I should mention, along the length of the Hall of Prophecy, the only light was that of the millions of orbs around us.

 

I paused, and Lucius pulled my hand as he took one step too far.

 

“Plan to do?” I breathed. “I left the planning up to you, you pillock!”

 

He sighed. “Herm—“

 

“I only agreed to come because…because…”

 

Why _had_ I agreed to come? Lucius was the one who wanted to see the damn thing, not me! Or had I totally misunderstood?

 

“To humour me?” he suggested with a trademark drawl.

 

I jerked my hand from his.

 

No, I had nothing to lose… I had brought this on myself, and if obtaining the ball to find some way to change my luck, it would be worth the risk. With Lucius involved, it complicated and eased matters, but I could not decide which was more important. We had gotten this far without any klaxons going off and bringing the Aurory upon us…

 

I was too old for adventures, but I flashed my hand out to take his to march on.

 

If this the best Lucius Malfoy could do to endear him to me, he was hopelessly cursed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Our strategy brought us to stand just before the door marked ‘cupboard,’ without any problems. Of course, Lucius had to play the tourist, pausing before the door to the Brain Room to reminisce, and again past the inky stairwell leading down to the Death Room. I purposely pulled him past the door leading to my workroom, though I heard start to say something.

 

I wanted to yell at him to stop acting like an annoying bastard and hurry along. I wanted to slap him about the head and shoulders for ever convincing me that this would be ‘fun.’ I worked in the D of M, but it was eerie when there was no one about. It was the emptiness of the department that brought back the terrible memories of my Fifth Year.

 

“You open it,” I grumbled to him, inclining my head to the cupboard door.

 

He rolled his eyes, the cheeky bastard…

 

The door opened and the scent of age and dust and must assaulted us.

 

Lucius lit his wand.

 

I had informed him beforehand not to wander, that the rumours of interns disappearing were true, and that I was not about to send out a search party for a man who, technically, did not exist.

 

“Here,” I whispered, flicking my wand to the appropriate rack, and as I had left it, the Conjured ladder marked the place where I had last worked pushing around crates of mysterious devices.

 

I had drawn my wand, with one thing in mind…

 

Lucius stared at the ladder as if it were some marvelous new invention.

 

I sighed, and pulled my hand from his. I had wanted him to be the one to climb, it was _his_ adventure, after all, but _I_ was the one climbing while he watched, smirking at my backside. Clutching the sides of the ladder, with my wand in the curl of my thumb, I began muttering to myself, irrationally.

 

By the light of Lucius’ wand, I climbed.

 

Twenty-three up, I was high in the ‘cupboard,’ and it was behind a crate of what looked suspiciously to be purple dildos, I found the ball. I had not noticed the ‘dildos’ before; then again, they were now wriggling in the box, the enchantment on the sexual implements having obviously forced the lid ajar.

 

The perversity of the Wizarding world was equaled only in its ingenuity.

 

I did not touch the ball, but hooking my left arm in the rung, used my wand to Levitate the device off the shelf.

 

The fates then decided to take another swipe at me.

 

Neither Lucius nor I had bothered to close the cupboard door, and the light I had ignored coming in from the Time Room shifted as a figure came to stand inside the light. It was not Lucius, and from my vantage point, I could only see the shadow of a robed figure falling into the room.

 

“Who is in here?” a voice boomed, a male voice, the voice of my department head, Sturgis Podmore.

 

The voice, my shock, and fate, had many things happening at once or simultaneously.

 

First, I lost my concentration on the Levitation Charm and the ball began to fall. Second, my foot slipped and the rung, in which I had looped my arm, broke. Third, I was falling.

 

The ball was not caught, but shattered on the stone floor, short of striking Lucius in the head. Oddly, there was no sound, but I saw the jeweled tracks scatter like shards of glass all around Lucius, who physically jumped out of the way.

 

Lucius’ wand went out, and I, the fates not wanting to do anything half way, hit the floor with a sickening jolt and crack. I screamed through my teeth, emitting a high-pitched sound that sounded more like a rusty hinge opening, and Podmore’s feet sounded in the room.

 

However, before I was found, Lucius hauled me off the floor in his arms and began to run, all the while latching me to his body before ducking into an empty space between a moldy, whistling armchair and a gargoyle statue.

 

“Who is in here?”

 

My heart was in my throat, my body pressed against Lucius in a very intimate position, and Podmore’s wand light searching far down the aisle.

 

Then, fate favoured us, I would learn later, as the crate of wriggling purple dildos began to wriggle more frenetically, sending several items falling around Podmore’s head.

 

“Bloody hell!” I heard him shout, “I thought I told Granger…”

 

Saved by dildos—I would never think distastefully of dildos again.

 

Seconds passed into minutes, and when the sound of falling objects ceased, I felt a wave of magic pass through me and nothing happened. I started to scream again as a particularly nasty slicing pain coursed through my left side, but before the scream came, Lucius’ mouth was over mine, swallowing my scream. Podmore was cursing under his breath, the sound of his voice echoing through the vast hall, and the cupboard door shut, and promptly locked.

 

Lucius shifted me in his lap, and I screamed again, this time with more volume and into his jumper.

 

My left leg was broken just below the knee, and I was sure I might have fractured my hip. The fall was equivalent to a story and half, and I was surprised I had not hit my head or incurred a worse injury.

 

He cooed at me as he lifted me to place my body in the aisle, pulling his cloak from his shoulders to ball it up under my head.

 

“My wand is gone,” he whispered anxiously. “Where is yours?”

 

Somehow, I had managed to keep hold of my ‘death stick,’ and lifted my hand feebly toward him.

 

The room was dark, but not completely, somewhere further into the hall, there was a faint silver light, just enough for Lucius to see the wand and loosen it from my clutching fingers. At his touch, the wand seemed to buzz, but not unpleasantly, and he took it to begin casting for small blue luminous balls of light—blue bell lights, to see.

 

“Merlin’s arse, woman, how can you be so unlucky?” he hissed as he moved to my broken leg, which was bleeding into the denim.

 

I screamed again as he ripped the fabric and winced at the sight of my leg. I did not have the will or the strength to look at the damage.

 

Magic wafted over me, but I knew, it was not working well enough to heal me any time soon.

 

Lucius cursed and wiped his mouth with the back of his wand hand.

 

“Accio wand!”

 

What came hurtling toward him was, oddly enough, not a wand, but mounted head of a half rotten hippogriff, which he blasted with amazing power and precision before it knocked into his body. At least my wand worked well with Blasting Curses.

 

“Accio wand!” he shouted, this time enunciating, rising to his feet.

 

This time, I screamed from fear and not pain as a hatbox with what looked to be Voldemort’s decapitated head peeking out flew over me to finally collide with Lucius, sending him stumbling back, cursing. That in addition, he Blasted out of existence.

 

“Jesus Christ!” he had roared, using very uncharacteristic words to exclaim his shock.

 

I was gasping for breath, my heart threatening to explode, still in my throat.

 

“Accio Lucius Abraxas Malfoy’s sodding wand!”

 

This time, I think I honestly fainted, so loaded with adrenaline and other like hormones, that I did not want to see what was Summoned next. Apparently, the room allowed his wand to come, and I felt my bones beginning to fit back into place and the skin closing where bone shard had pierced me from the inside out. The pain remained, but was lessened.

 

By the time I was pulled to my feet, I was crying like an idiot. I wanted to go home.

 

Lucius took my right arm about his neck and pulled me along, both my wand and his in his right hand, the blue bell lights following us as we shuffled up the aisle and past the beautiful shards of the Absolute destiny ball.

 

Fate was not done, however, as we found the door locked and sealed with a ward so strong it would take hours, if not a day, to dismantle it. I was exhausted, depressed, and bruised. Lucius was livid, and began kicking the door as if to vent his frustration at how badly our plan, his plan, had gone.

 

“Stop,” I moaned, so wrought out that my voice was a whisper. “No amount of kicking will make things better.”

 

“Portkey…” he growled and settled me against the wall so that I slide down the grimy, dusty stone to puddle on the floor.

 

Lucius grabbed the first thing he could find, which bit him, and he Blasted it as well.

 

“Fuck!”

 

If I did not know any better, Lucius was claustrophobic, and despite the size of the ‘cupboard,’ it was crowded, dark, and disgusting. Magic did not work correctly in this room, I wanted to tell him, and no Portkey would be made to save us any time soon. Apparating would also be foolish; it would hard to un-splinch us, if we did manage to make it outside the cupboard.

 

He healed his hand with his wand and began pacing, as it was custom for him, the blue bell lights following him, casting his pale hair with an eerie blue tinge. As weary and sore as I felt, I was watching him, rapt.

 

As if feeling the weight of my eyes, he seemed to snap back to the present, and moved to me, his face repentant, which was an expression so foreign to his features; he did not look like Lucius Malfoy at all.

 

“How long do you think, to dismantle the wards?” he asked in a strained whisper, his hands grasping my shoulders gently.

 

I swallowed thickly, my heart beginning to move back into my chest. I was thirsty.

 

“Hours, a day at the most… The two of us could do it in a few hours, but…” I trailed.

 

But, by then, we might not have time to escape without arousing notice, no matter if Lucius were to carry me on his back again. Unspeakables began work early and left work early. It was already night, perhaps nine in the evening. It would take more than a few hours with combined effort.

 

“Is there no other way out?”

 

This, I could not say for certain. No one really knew how far the aisles ran or where the far wall was. I told Lucius this as his hands moved from my shoulders to my neck and to the cold sweat that began to trickle down my throat. Though mostly healed, I felt sick, slightly feverish. It did not help that the room felt cold, and the darkness hedged in on us outside the glow of the blue bell lights.

 

“Some adventure,” I mumbled darkly.

 

Lucius sniffed disdainfully.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

How it was that I ended up walking next to Lucius, literally dragging my feet along a long aisle, was no mystery. We had tried to dismantle the wards on the door, but I was of no real help. The shock of the fall, the loss of blood, had made me weak and ill.

 

Even being shot and hit by a black cab did not seem to compare to the fatigue I felt at that moment. I was slogging through thick, brackish water, unable to fall unconscious, unable to sleep.

 

I could not even summon the energy to be angry with the man who held my hand, his skin so warm and so enticing.

 

The further we walked, the more I noticed how strange the items on the shelf became. Most were piles of rotten material, once something, but now nothing. Some things seemed as new and magically fresh as what was on the racks further behind us, and some things exuded magic so dark, that it made the air heavy and rancorous.

 

The silver light I had noticed grew stronger the further into the room we moved, and we had been walking for some time, perhaps miles. Of course, my slow shamble did not make the time pass any quicker.

 

“When the ball broke…” Lucius began, the sound of his voice startling me out of a near stupor. “Did anything happen?”

 

I licked my lips, but it did not soothe my flesh. “Happen?” I rasped.

 

Under the trailing blue bell lights, his eyes glowed as the peered down at my face.

 

“No…” I whispered. “The ball never really felt magical at all,” I continued.

 

“Then…” he whispered. “Was it really what caused your ‘bad’ luck?”

 

I was beginning to doubt. Maybe he had been right about self-fulfilling prophecies…

 

After a few more laboured steps, Lucius stopped, his arms going about me to help me settle on the floor.

 

“You need water,” he announced, and with his wand, he Conjured a goblet of pure and unblemished glass only to cast a Augamenti Charm to fill the glass before pressing it to my lips to drink.

 

When he believed I was able to hold the glass on my own, his hands ran over my hair, pushing it back from my face where it had fallen loose of the tie and feeling my forehead and cheeks.

 

“You have a fever.”

 

I drank deeply and made no motion that I heard him. I knew I had a fever.

 

Lucius sighed and stood, looking about, his eyes scanning the racks which were so old and the wood so rotten that they leaned toward each other creating a type of tunnel around us. I watched him as I began to sip slowly; curious as to what he intended to do next.

 

I was beginning to shiver, my hands shaking around the glass, and stopping his visual inspection of the racks around us, Lucius doffed his cloak and wrapped it about my shoulders. It was a gentlemanly gesture to be sure, but I could sense that he was past the stage of maniacally pacing and onto something closer to restrained panic.

 

Kneeling before me again, he plucked the glass from my fingers and pressed a cool hand to my forehead again, the pressure sending my head back into another hand that cradled the back of my skull.

 

“Damnit…” he hissed.

 

“I-I…” I began, but trailed very dizzy as my eyes shut and I began to fall back to the floor with assistance.

 

I have had fevers before, and fevers much worse than what I was experiencing at that moment, but my body throbbed with bruises, and despite my fall being some time before, I could still feel my insides jerking as the impact came over and over again.

 

On the floor, my back on the rough cobbled surface, I felt more centered, the dizziness waning.

 

“This was…a bad idea…” I wheezed.

 

He barked a laugh, leaning over me, his hands moving to wrap the cloak about me tighter.

 

To be honest, I would not have minded sleeping for a few decades in this dark hall. Maybe dying… My life was disaster, and I knew I was feeling sorry for myself, but this, everything was a disaster.

 

I was so tired, bone, and heart weary. I could not even be angry about it all and attempt to fight back. I just wanted something wonderful to happen after so many years of simply existing, moving in routines, moving in circles where I had deluded myself that I was contented.

 

Maybe I should fall in love, just once, to have a real perspective on how utterly unremarkable my life had become. I had the love of friends and family, but it was never enough, and I had been too much of a coward to realise how much I needed to be ‘in love.’ Oh, but I was proud, too proud for my own good.

 

Who was worthy of the one thing I had never given away? If I were to be in love, I wanted the feeling to be mutual, and so powerful that it would never end, no matter the ups and downs, the arguments and the reconciliation. I wanted to be adored for every part of me.

 

“Have you let anyone try?”

 

I opened my eyes wider. I had been speaking my thoughts aloud.

 

“I… No.”

 

Lucius sighed, his hands running over my face again as he knelt over me.

 

“Keep speaking your mind, witch, while I figure out what to do next…”

 

I swallowed, my mouth dry again. He rose, and I closed my eyes. I could feel Lucius begin casting, but I did not want to know or see what or why.

 

I did not know what to say. I was never one to openly speak of my emotions or very personal thoughts, even to my closest friends. I reveled in my privacy.

 

However, I did speak, but it was probably not what Lucius wanted to hear. It was a question.

 

“Do you love me?”

 

I heard him pause, his boots scrapping on the floor near my head.

 

He did not answer immediately, but instead, knelt next to me again to grasp my shoulders and help me up. I groaned, the bruises on the left side of my body protesting at the movement. I was gathered up into his arm and held close.

 

He had Conjured a small mattress of sorts, like a simple pallet, and he laid me down, sliding next to me. In the pale blue light over us, he manoeuvred me to remain sitting as he gently pulled my jumper over my head, careful of my bruised ribs and shoulder. Next came the mail shirt, which quickly took the chill from my skin, and was wadded up and tossed next to the bed.

 

I was too weary to protest as he laid me down again, my bare back sinking into the pallet, my breasts exposed to the cold air in the room. Lucius studied me, clinically, his fingertips skimming over my side and the worst of the contusions. I was not sure if I blushed, but I would have.

 

I was no ‘prude,’ but I felt embarrassed that Lucius Malfoy, the man who had been brought into focus in my life so suddenly, was staring at my breasts.

 

“I suppose I could…” he whispered before jerking at his own jumper and sliding it off, next the pendant he wore which was indeed a tooth of some creature, but a shard of a larger tooth, a cuspid with a sharp root at the end.

 

His chest was as white as the rest of his body, wide, muscular, and smooth. There was the faintest smattering of hair over his chest, running between the pectoral muscles to his taut belly, a silvery blond.

 

He lay down next to me again, gathering me closer so that I lay on my right side, my breasts pressing into his chest, my hands and forearms folded under my chin until I was laying by him much as I two nights before in Glacier National Park. This time however, it was skin against skin, and the contact had my body relaxing with no untoward thoughts.

 

“Your strength is a draw, as is your intelligence. Despite your ‘bad luck,’ we could…” he trailed, shifting so he was not laying on his hair, then he sighed as his arms tightened around me. “We’ll rest of a while…”

 

I did not argue. I was already drifting off into a hot and hazy sleep with no dreams except for darkness.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Lucius was holding me in his arms when I floated back into consciousness, and he was not walking, but standing before what was the source of the silver light I had noticed from a distance the few times I had been in the room. The source of the light was, much like the rest of the Department of Mysteries, something neither Lucius nor I could have expected.


	10. X

**X**

 

 

We were standing on the platform of a Tube station, a train standing before us beginning to depart.

 

The magic used on Platform 9 ¾ was of the same design as what had Lucius Malfoy holding me in his arms on the Rotherhithe station platform, now part of the London Overground, formerly the Underground East London Line. We had crossed under the Thames, possibly through a part of the Thames Tunnel. All the way from the west end of the Strand and toward Wapping Station, then across the river, below the river and to the South Bank.

 

It was day, perhaps near midday, and Lucius was blinking at the now empty rail line to the roundel of Rotherhithe Overground.

 

Slowly, he set me on my feet, adjusting the cloak about my shoulders and collectively, we inhaled. At some point, he had dressed us both…

 

The air was fresh, compared to the hall we had exited with no discernable entrance back inside for there was a solid wall behind us now. We had slipped through somehow.

 

The air made me fall against him, swooning slightly, the relative freshness contrasted to the dank of the sublevels, was intoxicating.

 

Lucius held me close, and though Muggles eyed us curiously, he kissed me, and I allowed him.

 

I could only imagine what had been going through his mind. I was sure he believed either we would be trapped forever in the hall of curiosities, or I would be found and taken away to Azkaban, a place he would not and could not follow. We had taken a great risk by venturing deeper into the hall, whereas we could have put our energy into dismantling the wards on the only door out and into the Time Room.

 

He had a small blossoming of a regret that he had, this time admitting his fault, brought me to harm. He was worried about my fever, which had, by this time, broken after rest. He was worried that I would find a way to break through his Tracking Charm and leave him alone for the rest of his life.

 

I could feel his desperation in his kiss.

 

Lucius’ mouth was stale and dry, but mine was more so, tinged with lingering fever. He held my body to his, bending his shoulders to access my mouth. I could not resist the desperate tenderness, and found that I wrapped my arms about his neck, lifting to the tips of my toes.

 

We pulled away slowly, our noses bumping slightly, and then, unexpectedly, I began laughing. Perhaps I was delirious, perhaps the sheer stupidity of what we had just done was making me insane, but I laughed, even as his hands slipped down to hold my waist under his overlong cloak.

 

Muggles were watching us, waiting for the next train on the platform, mystified at the short woman with dusty, grimy curls and too large cloak, clinging to a taller, paler man in a rumpled and dusty jumper, dirt smeared over his cheeks and streaked in his unusually pale and long hair.

 

“Please tell me that we are really out of there…” I whispered, my laugh turning into pained hiccups.

 

Lucius nodded, his eyes narrowing, a deep sigh escaping his slightly parted and swollen lips.

 

It would not be for a long while later that I wondered if we had chosen to walk down another aisle, if we would have escaped at all. One should never underestimate the strange and mysterious magic that was the D of M.

 

I counted my blessings, and wondered that if by shattering the ridiculous ‘Absolute destiny’ ball, my luck had changed and some curse, incurred unwittingly, had been broken.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I was rubbing Bruise Vanishing paste into my hip when I heard a knock on my apartment door. Lucius was dozing in the armchair, still dirty, but the dirt I had noticed, had been, in fact, mold. Crookshanks had curled up at his bare and blistered feet when he placed them gingerly on the ottoman, and Lucius was snoring softly. I had never heard him snore before, but I supposed he was simply too exhausted to keep up a pretense that he did not snore.

 

I had bathed carefully, and wrapped my robe about me. The knocking did not wake Lucius, and I limped to the door, undoing the dead bolt, but leaving the chain on.

 

Seeing the faces, and I mean plural, faces, standing on my doorstep, I blanched.

 

We had been caught.

 

“Miss Granger, would it be possible to speak to you?”

 

Aurors, three Aurors, all of which I barely knew. Williamson was the senior of the other two, dressed in traditional dark red robes, his long brown hair pulled back from his aging face in a tight ribbon, also red. The other two were men I knew Harry worked with on occasion, but I could not remember which was Fredricks or Pearson.

 

I never got ‘topside’ often enough.

 

“Regarding?” I asked through the crack in the door.

 

Williamson straightened, and in a voice that exuded authority said: “Lucius Malfoy.”

 

I vomited into my mouth, mostly hot liquid, as I had not eaten since the day before, and slammed the door in Williamson’s curious face.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Logically, if an Auror shows up on your doorstep to inquire about Lucius Malfoy, you begin to realize that Edwinia Glump’s curse had been broken. The mystery, however, was how.

 

I stalked through my flat to stand just at the armchair with a snoring Lucius Malfoy, and I let my hand fly.

 

I slapped him across the face so hard that he cried out like a wounded animal and jumped to his feet, stumbling and falling backward over the armchair as if to escape a rampaging manticore.

 

“What the—!”

 

He had his wand pointed at my face when he managed to make it to his feet, his left cheek bruising with a hand shaped mark. Lucius Malfoy looked more disheveled than I had ever seen him, his hair a fuzzy mess about his head, his clothes wrinkled, his face a mask of shock and anger.

 

“Aurors!” I hissed at him. “Aurors at the door, looking for you!”

 

Of course, I wanted to say ‘did you rape me while I was feverish, you sick, twisted bastard!’ Edwinia Glump had told me the conditions on breaking the curse… There was not really time for that as the knocking on the door continued. The wards on the door would give me time, but if the Aurors wanted, they could probably dismantle them in quick order.

 

“Me?” he bellowed. “Why would they—?”

 

Then he seemed to collapse internally, only his shoulders and his wand hand dropping on the exterior.

 

“Oh gods…” he whispered. “They remember who I am…”

 

I huffed. “And what do they want with you?”

 

He shook his head roughly, his eyes distant. Then, before I could stop him, he was opening the front door.

 

“Gentlemen…” he purred in a voice all too familiar, the voice of the man I had feared and hated for so long, the sound of that voice replacing the softer, more casual tone I had come to know.

 

And something inside me died.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Lucius left with the Aurors without even a word to me, and I was left in my flat with Crookshanks who had begun clawing at the hem of my robe. I ignored my familiar as I sank onto the ottoman, lost.

 

This lost sensation continued for the rest of the week.

 

The holiday was over, and I had shifted to autopilot mode.

 

My review came, and I appeared in Sturgis Podmore’s office, dressed to the nines, with a fake smile plastered on my face.

 

Podmore, who had been in the Order, was actually a very nice older man. I liked him, but the undisguised disappointment in his face did not phase me, for once during my career. He was talking, and I was nodding in agreement.

 

I had been distracted lately, and I agreed. My unannounced leave was unlike me, and I agreed. Unspeakables had a strict code of conduct and unannounced leaves held a penalty, and I knew it. He thought I was a brilliant researcher, but my sudden erratic behaviour was inexcusable, and I agreed.

 

“What shall we do, Hermione? Shall we keep you on or would you rather be transferred?”

 

The question gave me pause, and I let my true self emerge only a bit out of the black haze of loss on the inside.

 

“Would you transfer me?”

 

Podmore, who had been resting his elbows on his desk across from me, propping up his weak chin, frowned.

 

“If that is what you would like, Hermione. It is obvious that there is some stress in your life that is affecting your performance…”

 

I considered.

 

“Can I stay?”

 

Podmore’s frown lifted. “I would like you to, the rest of the department would like you to, but on several conditions…”

 

I nodded.

 

“If the stress of the job becomes too much, speak to me first before…”

 

I did not hear the rest. I had retreated into myself again. I had my job, for the time being, and in having a job, I knew I could escape those quiet, lonely moments in my flat, having too much time to think about things that, with every passing day, were beginning to matter less and less.

 

“Come in next Monday, Miss Granger. It is good to have you back,” Podmore said, his face brightening exponentially.

 

I only nodded.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The first news I had about Lucius came from Harry the next evening. I was fixing myself dinner, a grilled chicken salad, and fresh baked bread. I was sitting at the counter as Harry drank a glass of milk from my refrigerator.

 

“Why was Lucius Malfoy here?”

 

Harry was never one to hedge, but the question still made me recoil internally. My inside self had turned into a snarling, wounded beast, and any mention of Malfoy would have only enticed the beast to snap.

 

“Is that really any of your business, Harry?” I growled clutching my fork with a bit of tomato on the end.

 

Harry blinked at me, a milk moustache adorning his upper lip.

 

“The man has been missing for nearly five years, and when he is finally tracked down, he happens to be in my best friend’s apartment, a best friend who was in a Muggle hospital after being hit by a black cab? I would say it is my business, Hermione!” he snapped back, and then remembered to lick the milk from his lip.

 

I sighed and dropped my fork into my bowl, resting my elbows on either side.

 

“What the hell has been going on?” Harry asked, setting his glass down to approach the counter, the kitchen sink between us.

 

I closed my eyes. “If I told you everything, you would never believe me, Harry.”

 

He chuckled. “You’re talking to the boy who most of the Wizarding world believed was mental when I said Voldemort was back, Hermione. Trust me…”

 

I could trust Harry; he was the closest thing I had to a ‘love of my life.’ The judgmental boy had grown into a wonderfully understanding man, and I almost wanted to sit in his lap and cry into his chest to tell him the whole story. Ginny would have clawed my eyes out for such a thing, but she would have ripped out my heart if she knew how it came to be that I began telling Harry all about Lucius Malfoy.

 

He lay down next to me on my bed and held me, never questioning why I was nuzzling my cheek over his heart and inhaling the scent of him, a scent I had loved for so long.

 

I told him everything, and it exhausted me, just as catharsis can be exhausting, but cleansing. He did not interrupt, and he did not judge. Even when I finished, half asleep, weeping silently, he only held me close and pressed a kiss into my forehead.

 

He slept with me above the covers, and when I woke several hours later, he had risen to clean up the kitchen and perhaps inform Ginny that I needed my friend that night. Harry sat on my bed, sitting up and back into the pillows while I rested my cheek on his thigh, his fingers curling into my hair.

 

When he knew I was awake, he told me everything I missed in the days since Lucius had left with Williamson.

 

“Narcissa Malfoy-Devereaux contacted the Ministry, in search of her ex-husband, who had been missing for five years. She claimed she suddenly knew where he might be.

 

The MACUSA Aurors went to the house outside Missoula, Montana and tracked him from there to Trento, and the Consiglio di magia did a search of their own. The Aurors, all the while, began tracing him, finding that you were involved somehow, going to Gringotts to withdraw funds from a vault belonging to the Marquis Lucomo Mauvais Foi.”

 

I snorted at the name. ‘Lucomo’ was a Latin form of ‘Lucius, and ‘Mauvais Foi’ was literally French for ‘bad faith.’ Apparently, Harry did not ‘get’ the meaning.

 

“The Italian Polizia in Trento and the Consiglio di magia connected you to Malfoy…”

 

Harry fell silent, considering.

 

“I suppose when the ‘curse’ was broken, people began to remember things, seeing things that was blotted out of the minds at the time.”

 

I sighed. If that were so, were we seen in the Ministry? I had my job, so I supposed not.

 

“So, you knew for a while that Lucius and I…”

 

“Yeah, but not why. Hermione…” he trailed, his hand pausing in my curls. “You were nearly killed by being with him… You don’t want to see him again, do you?”

 

I did not know. I wanted to know how the curse was broken; I wanted to know why he left me without saying a word after everything…

 

Harry sighed. “You did not fall in love with him did you?”

 

Again, I did not answer.

 

I did not want to admit that I had, in a way, begun to care for him, despite everything I had been put through, either by my own bad luck or his persistence. I just wanted to know…

 

We lay in the quiet of the flat for a long time, and when dawn came, brightening the windows of my flat, Harry rose. I knew he had to go, but I did not want to be alone.

 

It was Saturday, and on Monday, I would go back to work. The days between seemed like months, and I had put so much hope into losing myself and my troubles in starting to work again.

 

Harry kissed my forehead again, his expression sympathetic. Whatever thoughts he had about Lucius Malfoy, Harry kept to himself. I knew he did not care much for the man, but for my sake, he did not rub salt in the wound. Harry had grown up.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I did not want to go out until Monday, but by Saturday afternoon, Harry having left hours before, I found that I was out of Crookshanks favourite ‘formulated kibble for Kneazles,’ I had to go to Diagon Alley to the Magical Menagerie to buy more. I was sorely tempted to give Crooks some of the diced chicken I had put in my salad the night before. However, feeding my familiar anything other than his regular food gave the half-Kneazle horrible gas that made my eyes water as well as making it impossible to sleep at night while he broke noxious wind at the foot of the bed. Who would have thought such a stench could be produced by a relatively small creature?

 

It was raining in London, and I could not remember the last time I saw rain. By the time I was in Diagon Alley, I was soaked through my coat and my hair was lank, dripping strands of wavy hair clinging to my cheeks. I did not bother with any Charms to protect myself from the cold shower.

 

What people I did pass, stared at me as if knowing that I had had some strange and perhaps untoward involvement with Lucius Malfoy. Of course, no one knew besides the authorities, and even that was not enough to actually bring me in to the Ministry for questioning. I was still trying to understand how everything had changed after Edwinia Glump’s curse was broken. Harry had explained it, I supposed, but I just could not wrap my mind around it all.

 

I felt as if a substantial chunk of my brain had been excised, leaving me incapable of deep thought or coherent speech. The sales witch behind the counter at the Magical Menagerie asked me three times to repeat myself when I asked her to waterproof the sack of pet food.

 

I wanted to throw the money for the food in the woman’s face. In my altered mind, it seemed like a good thing to do, but it required anger and energy for the desired effect, and I merely paid and took the waterproofed bag and hugged it to my chest.

 

Since I was out of my flat, I did not want to go back, no matter how people stared at me, no matter how cold I was becoming from the rain.

 

I window-shopped, and this simple thing, eased my mind and brought me closer to being myself.

 

I moved in a zigzag across the street, flitting from one shop to the next. I even stared at the new padding on a dummy in the window of Quality Quidditch, smiling like a nutcase at my reflection in the glass.

 

Moving on, I even caught sight of George and Angelina Weasley in their shop, but they were too busy to notice me. Somehow, I ended up at the base of the steps leading up to Gringotts, staring up through the rain to the façade.

 

I was not really thinking of anything in particular, nor was I admiring the regal, yet crooked façade of the ancient building, I was simply observing.

 

I had not decided if my luck had somehow changed by this point. I had not suffered any physical trauma in the past few days, which probably meant my luck _was_ changing, but I felt battered on the inside.

 

Then, either fate smiled upon me, or spat on me, I was not sure.

 

Lucius Malfoy was walking down the steps from the large bronze front doors, a cowl over his hair, his eyes meeting my own. His boots splashed in the puddles on the steps. He passed by me.

 

He passed by me as if I were not there.

 

I wanted to scream at him, turning, tackle him to the wet street, and force him to acknowledge me. I did not, but I did turn as I watched him walk into the narrowing Alley. He did not walk fast or slow, and I took this to be a cue of some sort, to follow.

 

Lucius’ normal stride was long, but graceful, as if he glided over the ground without actually touching it. I had seen on the telly how some people could do that, normally aristocrats—royalty. This sort of movement was practiced, as if as children, people who moved with such regality were tutored. Etiquette, social decorum, movement, speech…

 

How many masks did Lucius Malfoy wear? The Lucius Malfoy who paced maniacally, or sat on my ottoman with his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped before him, was that the real Lucius Malfoy?

 

I followed, but as if sensing me, Lucius began to glide like a ghost between other people who were under umbrellas, blocking my line of sight down the Alley. Then, I lost him somewhere past Quality Quidditch, and I stood blinking, shivering, just of centre of the thoroughfare.

 

Then, I was in an alee between awnings, cornered off the Alley. I nearly shouted out.

 

He had grabbed my elbow and turned me on my heel so that I had to jog to keep him from dragging me down the Alley. Lucius was like a black spectre gliding down Diagon Alley, while I was like a sopping wet rag doll. I kept a firm hug embrace on the bag of pet food, but Lucius’ hand wrapped easily about my elbow, a vice grip that was not about to let me go.

 

He did not speak to me, did not look at me, even when we moved down into the entrance of Knockturn Alley and through the rubbish strewn street to enter a building that I had become familiar with only weeks before.

 

In the shelter of the apartment building, Lucius did not bother to push back the low cowl over his head and he used his free hand to knock on a familiar door.

 

I was holding the pet food like a precious thing, too lost, and shocked to release it. I was using Crooks’ food like a shield to whatever fate dealt next.

 

The door opened, but this time, it was not Edwinia Glump with her melted wax face and hideous pink dress suit that greeted me. The creature that stood in the door, its yellow eyes moving from Lucius to me was decidedly male, and not a hag.

 

What the ‘man’ was eluded me, but he was not human.

 

“Whadda ya want?” he growled, his voice so low that I felt the bag in my arms tremble at the force of the sound.

 

“Ms. Glump, please,” Lucius answered as if addressing a member of the Wizengamot.

 

The ‘man’ sniffed.

 

He was dressed in a holey tee shirt, grey, for Puddlemere United, and wore a tatty kilt that was too long over thick, hairy legs.

 

The man had to be part troll or goblin, and his face was like something out of a nightmare, warty, or perhaps spotty, and mottled red and yellow. He looked as if he had a plague or leprosy.

 

“Mum! Some humans here!”

 

The man was calling back into the flat, and there was a sound of heels tapping against the warped floorboards, and to my relief, Edwinia Glump pushed past her ‘son’ to greet us with bulging black eyes.

 

She studied us, her strange lips curling into either a snarl or a smile. It was clear she was surprised to see us.

 

“Ralph, take a walk, dear,” she sang to the ‘man’ who was just as short as she was.

 

Standing side by side, I could see a familiar resemblance, and it was more than the fact both were hideous.

 

‘Ralph’ sniffed again, and pushing past Lucius, pounded down the building stairs and was gone.

 

“How unexpected!” Edwinia cooed in her disproportionate voice, her dark eyes meeting mine. “Do come in!”

 

Lucius continued to pull me, and soon we sank down in the afghan-covered sofa in the main room of the flat. The smell was still odd, but the blue smoke that had choked me before, was gone.

 

“Tea?”

 

“No thank you, madam,” Lucius purred, finally releasing my arm to push back his cowl, his pale hair tumbling over his shoulders, the musky scent of him overpowering the acrid odour of the flat for few moments.

 

He sat close to me, an arm against mine while I still hugged the pet food to my chest, so confounded and confused that I thanked whatever deity that I did have the bag to anchor me to reality.

 

The hag sat down across from us as she had when I came to call, and smiled, or so it seemed.

 

“It seems that you have managed to break my curse, Mr. Malfoy. I congratulate you on this,” she purred.

 

Lucius said nothing, and I could not decide who to look at, the hag, or the statuesque man at my side.

 

“But it also seems that you are not satisfied with…” Edwinia began.

 

“We did not have sex,” Lucius interjected.

 

I blinked at him.

 

I had been imagining that while I was delirious with fever in the bowels of the Ministry, Lucius could have taken me somehow, fulfilled the last condition of the curse, and I simply could not remember it. Of course, this notion angered me, but I could not whip myself up into a true anger to try to seek the man out to know. He had left me without a word, after all the shite he had spouted…

 

Yes, I felt used, but I reminded myself that I was dealing with Lucius Malfoy, the master manipulator.

 

All the while I had been thinking this, I was nodding to myself, bringing both party’s attention to settle upon me.

 

I inhaled and held my breath, hoping to filtre out the stench of the hag’s flat.

 

“We did not fall in love…”

 

The hag’s eyes moved back to Lucius, as did mine.

 

“I will not offend you further madam, but this curse of yours…”

 

“Was powerful,” the hag finished, leaning back into her chair, crossing her thick legs so a pink slippered foot was visible from behind the low table between us. “You did fall in love, and neither of you will admit who fell first, if at all,” she chuckled in her perpetual bedroom voice.

 

Lucius’ chin rose defiantly and I was clutching the bag in my arms tighter.

 

Oh, how proud we both were…

 

He loved me? I loved him?

 

No…no…no!

 

“As for sex…well, that I cannot explain. Are you sure?”

 

I spoke for the first time, and for the first time since Lucius left with Williamson, my anger returned like a tsunami wiping out all the tiny villages of thought in my mind.

 

“Of course we did not! Kisses do not amount to sex, madam!”

 

Lucius’ head snapped to me. I was trembling, the bag in my arms beginning to rip between my arms and hands.

 

The hag began to laugh, her head falling back, her black hair swirling about her uneven shoulders. The sound of her laugh gave Lucius and I pause.

 

“You humans…” she began in her cackle. “How restrained you are!”

 

I blinked at the hag.

 

“I cannot explain why the curse was somehow circumvented, unless there was another force working against one of you, but…” and the hag paused to consider us with hooded eyes. “Have at it already!” she shouted at us. “Your curses are broken, have another adventure, and be honest with yourselves for once in your short lives!”

 

We both recoiled as pure earth magic suddenly sparked in the room, making the hair on my arms and the back of my neck rise. We were no longer looking at hag, but a creature that was far more powerful and dangerous than what we could dream to be.

 

Her words were a commandment, a curse of its own, and I, still trying to rationalize my life, wondered if this ‘force’ had anything to do with the jewel coloured ball that shattered on the mildewed floor of the ‘junk cupboard’ in the subterranean hall of the Department of Mysteries.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Lucius took the bag of pet food from my arms and carried it under one of his own as we walked out of Knockturn Alley and to the Apparation point.

 

The fact that Lucius Malfoy was carrying Crooks’ food was odd. He looked almost normal, despite his fine clothes and the cloak that with its cowl pulled up reminded me of a time long past when I feared him.

 

“Our holiday was postponed,” he said as we reached the point of Apparation and turned to reach for my hand for Side-Along Apparation. “Shall we continue?”

 

I hesitated, the rain, which was now coming down in torrents, dripped off my chin, and matted my hair down to my skull.

 

“I go back to work Monday,” I whispered.

 

He considered my words, but still held his pale hand to me. “Tonight will be enough.”

 

It was as we were whirling through space and time, pressed tight against each other, that I wondered if I had heard him correctly. Lucius’ voice had been so sensuous, so honest, and so forlorn…

 

Lucius moved through my flat like a familiar guest, giving me the bag of food to feed Crooks while going into the bathroom to bring a towel for my hair.

 

“Narcissa realized, after the curse was broken, that I had written to her. The letter I sent with my name, she saved for some reason, and upon reading it, contacted the Ministry to find me,” he explained as I wrapped the towel about my head and peeled out of my coat while Crooks ate noisily from his bowl in the kitchen.

 

Lucius had removed his cloak, hanging it on the back of the stool and sat on the foot of my bed in almost the same outfit he wore when we met in Trento. Again, he took a posture that had become familiar, putting his elbows on his knees, leaning forward, and clasping his hands.

 

“She was waiting at the Ministry the night Williamson came.”

 

I nodded.

 

“Draco came to get me later to take me back to the Manor…”

 

Again, I nodded.

 

“It was strange to be home…to be a father-in-law and a grandfather, rather than an outsider trying so desperately to look in…”

 

He bowed his head and said no more.

 

This time, I did feel sorry for him.

 

“Draco commented seeing you at Hogsmede.”

 

Lucius was staring at me, expectantly.

 

“I-I did not want to say anything?” I whispered.

 

“To spare my feelings?”

 

I took a breath, and shrugged.

 

Lucius eyes fell to his clasped hands and he smirked. “It is funny, really. After living five years without Draco remembering who I was, having me again, gave him some sort of epiphany.”

 

“Oh?”

 

“He has decided to ‘limit’ my involvement with ‘his’ family.”

 

I frowned.

 

I did not expect Draco to be overjoyed at rediscovering his father existed and all the memories of his father suddenly returning being anything to cause more than a general overwhelming indecision.

 

“I can meet my grandson, be a part of his life, but Draco is Marquis, the ‘lord of the Manor,’ so to speak. I am still Marquis, in name only…”

 

I draped my towel about my shoulders and moved to lean into the back of the armchair across from him as his eyes searched the floor.

 

“The legalities will take some time to sort out, existing, not existing, and existing again,” he muttered. “This state of ‘non-existing’ is far worse than being declared dead when one is not,” he chuckled sardonically.

 

“So…” I trailed, not sure how to speak to him.

 

Lucius eyes lifted from the floor to my face.

 

“So, all of this is what I have been working with for the past week.”

 

I could only nod. It _was_ an explanation, of a sort.

 

Gods, why did I feel as though I needed an explanation from the likes of Lucius Malfoy?

 

“What to do now?” he asked more to himself than to me.

 

Yes, what to do now?

 

“The curse is ‘broken,’ but…”

 

“But we did not really fulfill the conditions,” I finished.

 

He nodded, “But is it really broken? Curses by hags are never so easy to break…”

 

I snorted, but then bit my lower lip. Edwinia Glump’s words and power came back to me, as did a hint of the odour of her flat as if it were coming from my damp clothes, having followed me back to my flat.

 

The sound of Crookshanks’ teeth crunching on his food from behind the counter only broke a collective silence between us. It was a familiar sound, which made the silence strangely comfortable.

 

“And your ‘curse?’” he asked.

 

I blinked at him. My ‘curse?’

 

Oh.

 

“Fate has not tried to off me in the past week… I suppose my ‘curse’ was broken when the ball shattered, but did its last bit of magic when I fell off the ladder.”

 

Lucius nodded. “Then…”

 

The comfortable silence disappeared. There was little more to say, besides the things that would only lead to discomfort.

 

“Then…” he repeated again, his face pinching slightly in thought of how to speak. “Should we have another adventure to test your change of luck?”

 

I do not know why, but I started to laugh. The part of me that had retreated deep inside, came bursting out to the surface.

 

“To tempt fate?” I asked, laughing.

 

Lucius straightened, his hands unclasping, the corner of his mouth quirking upward.

 

“Why not?”

 

I narrowed my eyes and smiled. “What did you have in mind?”


	11. XI

**XI.**

 

 

He lied when he told me it would not be the type of ‘dangerous’ we had been used to since meeting months prior.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Lucius Malfoy was indeed a man who wore many masks.  I tried to count them beginning with my earliest recollection of him in Flourish and Blotts before my Second Year, until the moment he was helping me sit at a table in a restaurant in Wizarding Paris later that day, dusk in Paris.

 

There was Lucius Malfoy, the snob who would scuffle with Arthur Weasley in Flourish and Blotts.  There was Lucius Malfoy, Death Eater, and sycophant, who was, thankfully, metaphorically dead.  There was Lucius Malfoy, the warrior, which were actually several different variations of the same mask.  There was Lucius Malfoy, the defeated.  There was Lucius Malfoy, the devoted husband and father.  There was Lucius Malfoy, the penitent.  There was Lucius Malfoy, the mad, invisible entity that paced when agitated.  There was Lucius Malfoy, the aristocrat.

 

I began losing count after this point.

 

At the moment, sitting across from me, Lucius Malfoy’s mask was a mixture of aristocracy and something else, a mask I was beginning to identify with a man whose machinations were not to be trusted.

 

I had seen him mischievous, I had seen him angry, and I had seen him almost kind…

 

Of course, no amount of kindness, true or not, would have me trusting Lucius Malfoy completely.  He delighted in his schemes, games, and manipulations.

 

“Considering how miserable you looked earlier, I must say, my dear, you do ‘clean up’ nicely.”

 

I rolled my eyes.

 

The bastard had gone through my closet and tossed a dress at me, growling that I should shower and do ‘something with that hair.’

 

The last time I had worn the slim black dress had been to a Ministry New Year’s gala three years before.  It was a revealing dress, draped black sateen in the back that bared much of my skin to the middle of my back, and draped in the front that my breasts were just covered.

 

I have no idea why I had worn the dress to something as formal to the Ministry gala, but I did garner much attention.  My ancient friend James had pointed out the dress to me during a visit to Venice, and considering how much I paid for it, I had to wear it somewhere other than my flat.  Thus, the Ministry gala.

 

James had incredible taste for clothing, men and women’s, and commented on how lovely I would look in it with my hair pinned up to reveal my throat.  I remembered he gave me one of those smoldering, ‘I would not mind having you in that dress so I can peel it off you later and suckle at your carotid artery’ looks. 

 

Indeed, I wore the dress, pinned up my now dry and coiffed hair, and put on as little makeup as possible.  The dress fell to my ankles with a slit up the left side where I put on a Disillusioned holster just at the top of my stocking to keep my wand on me at all times. 

 

Lucius ordered when the waiter came, enunciating in a perfect accent ala Lyon, and I faltered when ordering, the smoothness of Lucius’ accent confusing my brain.  I could speak French well enough, Parisian French, but my Italian was much better, with a Sud-Tyrol-Veneto accent. Lucius spoke his French so naturally that it must have made his Norman ancestors very proud.

 

Wine came, red to go with our meat dishes, and Lucius toasted me.

 

This restaurant was as lavish as one could get in Wizarding Paris, located in the old Latin Quarter, closeted away from the world, stuck in the Eighteenth Century where so much was gold and gilt, creams and lavenders, yet the old Latin Quarter style remained in most places, reminding you very clearly that the ‘real’ Paris was not the wider streets and boulevards, but the winding little alleys, dark alcoves, and music lit air from another time.  Only New Orleans was comparable.

 

People recognized us.

 

Wizarding Paris was just as large as Wizarding London, and there were as many British Magical folk in Paris in the spring as there were in London.  Though I could not place many names to the faces, in the restaurant alone, there were at least three Pureblood British families dining this night.

 

This sort of ‘dangerous,’ was the sort I hated the most.  Recognition and gossip.

 

However, Lucius was smiling, obviously aware of the eyes upon us, but finding it only amusing.

 

We did not speak much while the first and second courses came and went.  I drank entirely too much in my nervous state, hoping to dull my keen awareness of being watched by eyes that were not exactly kind.  I could imagine what these people were whispering to each other, and what they would tell their friends when they returned to Britain.  Hell, I would not have been surprised if Rita Skeeter were under a nearby table with quill poised to record everything Lucius and I were saying—as little as possible.

 

When dessert came, a small serving of the richest pot de crème I had ever had, the real conversation began.

 

“You mentioned the Mona Lisa once…” he began, dropping his napkin on the table.  “You mentioned all the tourists being in the way of truly viewing the masterpiece…”

 

“It has its allure, but I would not consider it—“

 

“Yet, you have never stood alone before it?”

 

I had interrupted him, and he had frowned, but paid my discourtesy in kind.

 

I blinked at him.  “No.”

 

He only gazed at me before lifting his wine and sipping the last few drops from the fluted crystal. "Neither have I."

 

With a graceful movement, he set his glass down, composing his face so that his eyes regarded me down the length of his nose.  There was something alive in his eyes, a curiosity that made me squirm slightly in my chair, wishing I had refused to wear a dress so revealing or controlled my intake of wine.  I felt naked as well as feeling as if, in his eyes, I were all that there was in his world.  Either way, I was uncomfortable.

 

"I have arranged for a private tour of Salle de la Jaconde, Salle Mollien, Salle Daru of L'aile Denon."

 

My mind seemed to short out for a split second for when I realized he was speaking of the Musee du Louvre, he was already helping me from my chair.

 

And he took my hand into the fold of his arm, pressing the back of my palm into his side, into the velvet of his coat, and together, we walked from the restaurant in the Latin Quarter, whispers trailing behind us.  I realized that I did not care as much as I thought about what people would say about Hermione Granger, war hero, being in the company of perhaps the most visible proponent of the Death Eater contingency in the War.  The past was the past, and I, of all people, needed to remember this if I were to keep up my brand of moral outlook.  I nearly snickered aloud as we passed through the entrance of the restaurant and into the dark of the labyrinthine streets of Wizarding Paris.

 

"Amusing, was it?" he asked, moving his right hand to press my hand gently into his left side and the crook of his elbow—a gentlemanly gesture, one I knew was rehearsed.

 

"Quite," I breathed, remembering that the night was not over and the chance for 'adventure' was looming before me.

 

I was not truly amused at all.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I had been to the Louvre before on vacations with my parents, but always in the day, always in the midst of the hustle and bustle of tourists with their cameras hanging from the necks and the press of their heat against me as I tried to behold the masterpieces without interference.  The Louvre made me hate people.

 

 

However, the floating, dripless candles that lit the Salle of L'aile Denon, made the old hall seem so large around us, not a whisper of foreign voices recalling the history of each painting on the walls.  There was no crush of bodies upon bodies and the gallery was cool and silent.  Our footfalls echoed on the parquet floor of Salle de la Jaconde as we approached perhaps the most recognizable painting in the entire Muggle world—the Mona Lisa by Leonardo da Vinci.  As to why Lucius Malfoy wanted to bring to this place to view this particular painting was slow in coming to my mind.  I admit I was amazed at the emptiness of the Salle, and the quality of the casting of light upon the paintings by the hovering candles.  I was in amazement that Lucius had somehow arranged for us to be in the Louvre alone, unnoticed, and unafraid of being accosted by Muggle security.  I supposed he had somehow arranged it through a French contact, spending an exorbitant amount of money to give me this chance... I wondered how he knew how much I enjoyed viewing art by candlelight. Had he spoken to James? And how had he remembered what I had said at the Grinnell Glacier?

 

A wall of bulletproof glass surrounded the Mona Lisa, but the hovering candles did not glare off the barrier.  Instead, the painting seemed to glow on its own, outward, toward us as we stood side by side, gazing upon the small rectangular image. I appreciated the work a bit more, not having to jostle with other people to see the painting, but still—I was not entirely impressed.  The elation of expectation was missing, and I, like a spoiled child, was horribly let down. 

 

This fact must have been evident on my face for Lucius’ hand moved before my eyes and I fell back against his chest, enveloped.  The warmth of his hand suffused my skin, sending tingles up and down my spine, to my toes, to the very centre of my body.  Slowly, he danced me into his arms and away from the Mona Lisa, the tap of my heels sounding rhythmically on the floor as if we were waltzing.

 

Then I was placed gently upon a velvet upholstered chaise, a kiss pressed into my cheek.  I opened my eyes, the candlelight so warm that it gave me a thrill of pleasure.  Lucius had moved us into another hall. The Salle Mollien was mostly dark, only a few candles having followed in from the other gallery, and as I rubbed my cheek against Lucius’ chin, I slanted my eyes to view Delacroix’s ‘Death of Sardanapalus’ in all its sumptuous glory. I turned my head to look behind me; I found the glowing body of Francesca pressed into Paolo. Both paintings were erotic, and slowly they began to writhe.

I hummed as I pressed my cheek into Lucius’ chest feeling that the movement had come from a spell which flowed from his body and into the room.

Maybe it had been the wine, maybe it was the light, or maybe it was his warmth and masculine scent, but I felt a boneless comfort in his arms. More than that, growing warmth that started low in my belly and seeped outward.

The way that Francesca wound and writhed against Paolo, the concubine being slowly sacrificed before Sardanapalus, it was a pale mirror to the arousal I felt as Lucius’ fingers skimmed down the back of my neck to my spine. It was almost too much—the sensuous, romance level was beyond comprehension. Despite my usual skepticism of all things remotely romantic, I was turned on.

I angled my face upward as his fingers fastened on the tab of the hidden zipper of my dress, and inhaled the musky, woodsy scent at his throat. My own hands twitched and moved into his robes, savoring the warmth along his ribs.

When our lips met, a softness of magic poured over my skin from the kiss to my toes. I allowed him to taste my mouth, his tongue teasing and retreating. I let the bodice of my dress slip to my waist and his lithe fingers touch and tickle and titillate every exposed pore. The gallery was gone and all there that mattered was him and getting my fingertips to touch his bare flesh.

He laid me down on the chaise and for a fleeting moment I felt the coolness of the air around us. Lucius shrugged out of his robes, and in doing so, let the length of his silvery hair fall over one shoulder. I watched him in the candlelight, riveted by the hiss of finery over skin.

We had not spoken in what seemed an age, and as he pulled the tail of his shirt from his trousers, allowing the fabric to fall open, I could wait no longer. I rose up like a striking serpent and took him in my arms, my mouth fitting against his in the most wanton action I felt I had made in all my life.

I wanted him, and it had nothing to do with love, per se. It had been a slow burn, a slow built up, but one thing had always been true: I found Lucius Malfoy physically attractive, and that was a start. At that moment, with the texture of his skin and hair, the scent of his body and the weight—he was sexually attractive.

I wanted him inside. I wanted to feel him pulse inside. I wanted to feel how full he could make me…

My skirts were pushed up, my shoes were falling off my toes, but it did not matter, all that mattered was that his weight settled in the cradle between my thighs.

Lucius held my face in his hands, and thrusting his hips into my pelvis, let his lips twitch into a wry smile. It was as his left hand moved to slip between us and to begin removing the fabric barriers that a klaxon sounded from a distance. I paid it no mind at first, my brain befuddled with arousal and quite a bit of wine. All I cared about was the hard length pressed into my core pressing harder, deeper, and without barriers.

I think I groaned when Lucius’s fingers slipped inside my receptive body, only to recoil as the klaxon grew louder.

Reality set in as I was suddenly pulled to my feet, the sensation that my head was still on the chaise making me dizzy.

“Make haste, my dear…” he whispered, finding his wand in his discarded robes, Vanishing the candles and plunging the gallery into darkness.

I blinked in the dark as the sound of footsteps sounded upon the parquet floors far down the wing.

I am not sure if it was my magical ability that willed my dress back in place, or a silently cast Charm from Lucius, but I did know for certain that my arousal mutated into fear and anger. The glint of flashlight beams caught my eye and as I opened my mouth to curse, Lucius had gathered me up in his arms and the press of Side-Along Apparation crushed my face into his left shoulder.

The unfolding of space-time had me flailing to be free.

I should have known—the only somewhat calm thought in my mind at that very moment.

I had no idea where we were, but I did not care as my hand flew to slap Lucius Malfoy across the face. The stunned gasps that came from around us had me stumbling back into a table laden with a couple’s dinner.

Lucius had brought us back to the restaurant we had been dining at maybe an hour before. It must have been the clearest in his mind in his haste to flee what apparently had not been a legal viewing at the Musee du Louvre.

After several hissed French phrases, I somehow managed not to sit down in a lady’s meal and find my own wand in the Disillusioned holster at the top of my stocking. I quickly reset the table I had nearly upset, Vanished the spilt wine that had caused the wizard at the table to curse at me, and with another flick of the wrist, my hair was reset before Lucius had mussed it. I muttered a quick apology to the couple and with sniff in Lucius Malfoy’s direction, took it upon myself to Apparate home.

 

 

 

 

 

I hated myself as I kicked out of my heels and ripped the stockings from my legs. I should have known there would be an element of illegality and/or danger where Lucius Malfoy was concerned. But as I flopped down to sit on the edge of my bed in the darkness of my flat; my eyes were still dazzled with the candlelight in the Salle Mollien and my body ached from the absent sensation of digits slipping inside my most tender of flesh.

I hated allowing myself to be put in another potentially risky situation. I simply did not need to be arrested by Muggle authorities, detained, and possibly jailed just as I was set to begin work again. My heart was still pounding from intoxication, arousal, anger, and danger. I think I hated myself for loving the sensation. I sighed heavily as my eyes adjusted to the light coming from the high windows, the ambient city light casting everything in an orange hue of street lights. It was still early evening in London, and as I managed to unzip my dress, I stood to let it slither down over my hips into a puddle at my feet. The slide of fabric caused me to shudder. I could still feel the lines his fingers had traced on my throat and down my spine.

Closing my eyes, I sniffed, still smelling his mix of unique odors on my skin. And then the hair on my arms and back of my neck prickled.

“Was that the last straw?” he said in the darkness.

It had not been just his scent on my skin.

I opened my eyes and turned to find him just standing at the foot of the bed, just within arm’s reach. He has only his shirt sleeves, the front redone. His wand was twirling casually between deft fingers, and the expression on his face was oddly penitent.

I did not like the ‘penitent’ Lucius, truth be told.

His eyes moved over my bared breasts to my bared legs. I was standing in my knickers.

How foolish to think I had privacy in the safety of my flat. After so long, it was clear that Lucius could move between and through my wards, and I had been too consumed with other thoughts to think to reset them.

When I did not answer him, he turned and slipped his wand into the side pocket of his trousers. He moved as silently as he came, toward the door.

“You could have told me the truth…” I said softly, trying not to betray my fear of him actually leaving.

Lucius paused before passing the lavatory. He turned back toward me; his silvery eyes caught the light, making them glow eerily in the dark of the hall.

“It was supposed to be thrilling.”

I could not repress a scoff. “Is that what turns you on?”

The smile that curved his lips was predatory.

“Not always, but with us, my dear, it seems to be the norm.”

I licked my lips and stepped out of the puddle of my expensive dress, not caring that his eyes automatically went to my chest. I dropped my wand, that accursed yew and thestral wand onto the pile of dress, stockings, and shoes.

“But is it necessary to…um…get it…” I purposely faltered, my own eyes going to the front placard of his fitted trousers.

“Up?” he whispered, taking a step toward me and out of the deeper dark.

I nodded, moving to pull the pins from my hair, letting the coiffure fall in a tangle about my shoulders.

He licked his lips in turn, nostrils flaring, hands flexing at his sides.

“With you…not at all…”

I smirked as my hands reached out to touch him just as the outline of the stiffness in his appeared in high contrast in the low light. One hand went to my hair, the other to grasp my hip, pulling my body against his in a rough motion.

His breath was hot against my face as I traced the line of his cock through his trousers.

“Promise me one thing, Lucius Malfoy,” I breathed as my thumb flicked at the button at the top of his trousers.

He grunted as I insinuated my hand into the fine fabric. “Anything…”

I could feel his beating heart in his cock.

“Don’t…” I tugged on the thick member and drew him closer. “…ever…” His mouth fell open with a wanton gasp as my thumb ran over the sticky tip. “…by omission…” I wrapped my fingers around the base. “…or purposely…” One hard stroke had his knees beginning to weaken. “…lie to me.”

The hiss that passed through his teeth was like hot dragon’s breath on my chest as he went to his knees before me, his cock sliding out of my palm. He knelt before me, his hands moving to remove his shirt, his boots, his trousers all at once. Lucius had forgotten in that moment that he was a wizard.

Personally, I relished the fact that he was kneeling before me, his cock pointing upward from his trousers, his skin like polished silver in the low light. I could not get over how truly beautiful this man was in his vulnerability. And when I felt a rush of dampness in my knickers, I shuddered as his patrician nose flared as if to say ‘I can smell you.’

When he stood, finally mastering himself and his ability to remove his clothing, I had to take a step back. Of course, he was taller, but in his arousal, he loomed.

I found myself twirling into his arms, the soiled knickers seeming to disappear, and his fingers delving into my nether curls as we danced toward the vicinity of my bed. When momentum stopped, I was straddling his hips, the tip of his cock brushing against my lower belly, his fingers rubbing slow circles against my clit.

His mouth found my breasts again, and as I stroked his hair, pressing his mouth to my chest, his left hand held my hip; his right hand was edging toward my center away from that bundle of nerves. I could not control my breathing or my voice. I think I said his name, or maybe cursed, either way, I was coming undone.

The persistent prodding of his cock into my lower belly, however, reminded me of the one thing I truly wanted. I pulled my chest away and angled his chin upward to kiss him. He hummed into my mouth as I began to convulse. With a smooth motion, he lifted me, our bodies twisting, and then he was inside.

My body protested the sudden invasion by clamping down hard. It had been quite a while since that particular part of my anatomy had attention or visitors.

What followed from that point on was a blur of thrusts, moans, sweat, saliva, curses, and ejaculate. What was more profound than the bliss I felt coursing through my body like a Pepper-Up potion, was a suddenly release of something that had had a hold on the intangible part of my psyche. Maybe it was the ending of curses, or maybe it was the realization that I had just had very good sex with Lucius Malfoy.

Good sex? Correction, _great_ sex…and it had been fast.

I smirked into his chest as we lay spent on my bed, his eyes shut, and his cock softening against his belly.

“What’s so funny?” he drawled softly, and most typically Malfoy. He did not open his eyes, but his hand on my shoulder squeezed gently.

I let the smirk widen into a smile and I rubbed my nose and cheek against his chest. “Months and months of foreplay…” I muttered.

I did not need to say more as what I said sank in, and I felt him shudder. Maybe it was this thought that made him hard again.

 

 

 

 

 

I left him sleeping in my bed, Crooks keeping sentinel over his feet sticking out from the bottom of the blankets. He hugged a pillow, his mouth slightly open, his hair a tangle of silver on the dark red bedding. The sun had risen, and I had been up for some time. Washing, healed (I was sore), hair combed, some food eaten, I was dressed to go to work.

It was Monday and my brain was a million miles away from the D of M.

I sat on the edge of the bed, slipping my wand into my belt holster under my work cloak, my eyes memorizing his unguarded face. I wanted him still, no matter how sore I was, or how chaffed my thighs were…

With a sigh, I rose and slipped my feet into my shoes. I tapped old Crooks on the head and moved to the door.

Going to work seemed so dull when the possibility of adventure and danger lay sleeping like a babe in my bed.

Love is three quarters curiosity, my friend James famously said once, long ago. I had to agree. If it had not been for my insatiable curiosity, I would not have found myself ever falling in love with someone like Lucius Malfoy. However, if I had to admit the truth, the last quarter is sheer masochism cum stupidity.

The months and years would pass while Lucius Malfoy and I continued in our adventure called love was fraught with much danger and pain and in the end; I knew I could never have it any other way.

 

**Author's Note:**

> The title is a quote by Giacomo Casanova. Sorry to disappoint, but Lucius, god of sex, is not too prevalent in this fic as he is in some other things I have written. Please withhold the tomatoes and other produce you might throw in my direction. This is also an attempt at humour, contrasted to my usual ‘dark’ scribblings, so forgive the dryness, eh? Oh, and this ficlet is once again in 1st person POV. Enjoy!


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